


This Is Love

by heartofsnark



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Age Difference, Bliss (Far Cry), Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Gore, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Hope County is full of fuckboys, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, John Seed is a slut, Multi, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Polyseed (Far Cry), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shameless Smut, Staci Pratt is also a slut, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Walking In On Someone, basically every gross thing you can imagine will eventually happen, removed canon typical violence tag cause these dreams...oof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 103,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23124763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofsnark/pseuds/heartofsnark
Summary: Dahlia Hale is the youngest person working at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Hailing from a small town in Louisiana, it’s going to take her some time to fully acclimate to the new environment and living on her own. Developing friendships takes time even for the most functional of people and for disasters like Dahlia it takes even longer. She gets along with her coworkers and there’s some religious family who’s taken a shine to her, for some reason. It seems like she’s on her way to getting the kind of friends she’s only ever dreamed about, even if it’s going to take some more time.Then everything goes to shit.Halfway through her six-month probationary hire and that nice religious family has kicked off a holy war with her becoming enemy number one.To one side she’s a hero.To the other she’s a monster.She’s not sure which is right.
Relationships: Faith Seed/Original Female Character(s), Female Deputy | Judge/Faith Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Jacob Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/Joseph Seed, Jacob Seed/Original Female Character(s), John Seed/Original Female Character(s), Joseph Seed/Original Female Character(s), polyseed disaster y'all
Comments: 70
Kudos: 142





	1. Welcome To Hope County

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, I’ve been talking about this for a bit on my tumblr, even commissioned art of my deputy, and it’s time to just take the jump and start publishing my Far Cry 5 fic. I hope you enjoy. Also, i have like a series warning for this that will be on every chapter cause it needs it. 
> 
> SERIES WARNING: I usually do not like to spoil endgame pairings in my fics, but this warrants being up front. This series is polyseed and involves heavy, recurrent themes of at times romanticized noncon, dubcon, large age differences, and stockholm syndrome that develops into a romantic relationship. The relationship between my oc and the Seeds is extremely unhealthy, toxic, and should never be replicated or sought out in real life. No matter how things progress or how they are portrayed at different points, this fact remains the same. i am comfortable exploring and enjoying these themes in fiction, not everyone is. If you are uncomfortable with or triggered by any of these things, please skip this and take the precautions you feel necessary to avoid this material. If you are an individual who struggles with separating reality and fiction; please do not read this. Otherwise, if you’re comfortable with and enjoy that kind of content, please enjoy.

A shiver rolls down Dahlia’s spine, the chill of the Montana night settling into her bones. A sign welcomes her to Hope County, her motorcycle tire spinning dirt at it as she passes. The moon shines bright in the sky, cascading silver light down on everything. It’s beautiful despite the cold, light reflecting off the lakes and streams that pass through the county. 

It’s mostly woods and forests, fields of big white flowers and animals wandering through. The entire county is begging to be put on a postcard, from the animals, to the fields, to the…giant cement statue of a guy with a manbun…

Her tires squeal as she comes to a stop on the thankfully vacant road, she pushes the visor of her helmet up, as if the tint could cause her to see something like this. Sure enough, the white hunk of stone is still there. It’s of a man with his hair pulled back in a small bun, in one hand he holds a book and the other gestures outward. 

Hair raises on the back of her neck and goosebumps collect across her skin, the statue is…eerie. It looms across the entire region, a creeping specter. Unnerving doesn’t even begin to describe it, her body has started to lean towards it, almost drawn to it. 

Maybe it’s a historical figure for the county? People do that right, build monuments to founders or something. The clothes of the figure seem old fashioned, but she’s not sure about how far back the manbun goes.

She shakes her head and slaps her visor back down, she needs sleep. It shouldn’t be much further to her hotel. Dahlia revs her engine and rushes off that way, finally finding the large wooden hotel with its red roof. There’s a large wooden sign welcoming her to the King’s Hot Spring Hotel, the parking lot is decidedly vacant, and she comes to a stop by the smaller stone black sign that sits close to the larger wooden one, easy to overlook if someone wasn’t looking close enough. 

“King’s Hot Spring Hotel

On May 12 th , 1902 a 7.6 earthquake struck the mountain south of the hotel. It created a 10 million ton landslide that sliced a deep crevice in the earth and destroyed half the King’s hotel. 16 people were killed in the landslide, their bodies never recovered. To this day, their ghosts are said to haunt the site of the rebuilt hotel. 

Built 1866.”

So, from a dirty cockroach motel to a haunted hotel, certainly a step up. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts, they’re cool as all hell, she loves creepy shit. But she doesn’t think any of it is real and if she’s wrong, maybe the ghosts will be nice enough to kill her. She parks her bike and shuts off the engine, unclipping her storage bag from it and making her way to the door. 

The inside feels warm and welcoming, rustic. A large stone fireplace with a bear skin rug in front of it, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. Her eyes scan the room and she finds a registration desk where a woman sits, reading from a white book. She stands out slightly in the old styled hotel, tattoos covering her arms. The woman’s light, almost milky, green eyes, look up to see Dahlia as she makes her way to the desk. 

“I called ahead and reserved a room for tonight.” 

“Hale, right?” The girl flashes a soft smile as she slides the registration forms across the desk and Dahlia finds herself looking down at the receptionist’s arms, SLOTH and ENVY with strikes through them; half tattooed and half scarred in the woman’s skin. Heavy-handed work. 

“Yeah, that’s me, how’d you know?” 

“Oh, not many folks check in here anymore, between the ghost tales and the new management.” 

“Management?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she finishes scribbling in her info and handing her card over. 

“Here,” the woman hands Dahlia’s card back along with a room key and a map, “I’m sure you’ll find the path.” 

“Uhh…thanks…” 

She shakes her head as she leaves the desk, doing a double take at the worker, who’s now back to reading the large white tome with a soft smile on her face. Dahlia is entirely too tired to deal with weird cryptic people, maybe she’s trying to play up the creepy factor of the supposedly haunted hotel. Probably intrigues the tourists or some shit. She takes her phone from her pocket, ringing Lloyd as she walks to her room. 

“Hey, Stray,” He greets her with the nickname he gave her and she already feels a little better despite the chill and exhaustion. 

“Hey,” Dahlia unlocks her room and strides in, there’s a deer head mounted on the wall and a vase of those white flowers on the bedside drawer, “just wanted to let you know that I am officially in Hope County.” 

She tosses her luggage, along with the gunk the receptionist gave her onto the bed and does a fist bump for no one’s benefit but her own. 

“That’s good, your interview is tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll go well, if not it might be another year of me eating cheese puffs on your couch.” 

“You make it sound like you’re some sort of bum.” 

“I mean…” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m gonna be a mess when you go.” 

“If I go, still gotta get the job.” 

“You’re gonna nail it, I know it, me and Earl were friends way back. He’s not dumb enough to let you go. And if he is, well, I’ll be having some words with him.”

“You can’t fight someone for not wanting to hire me.” 

“I mean, I can, uh, yeah, sweetie it’s stray, I was kinda, oh Caroline wants-“ 

“Stray, did you throw your fucking phone away?” Caroline, Lloyd’s wife, is on the phone in a second, worriedly yelling. 

“I talked to you when I stopped off in Denver.” 

“Yeah, in a dingy nasty motel and then we didn’t hear a word from you for over twelve fucking hours!” 

“I’m pretty sure I could handle myself,” Dahlia laughs and rolls her eyes, the concern is appreciated but unneeded. She’s a cop and despite her short stature, she’s got muscles and knows how to protect her. Maybe it’s cocky and arrogant, but at this point in her life, she’s not afraid of anything hurting her physically, mentally and emotionally is a whole other ballpark. 

“Still, what if you were in an accident. Have you ate? Do you know where you’re eating tonight?” 

She ate back in Denver and her stomach is growling now, but she mostly just wants a shower and sleep. She’d rather just grab room service for breakfast. 

“I’m fine, I’ve ate and I will eat. Stop worrying, now I’m gonna get settled in for the night, I’ll call you after the interview.” 

“Wait, ha-”

“Goodbye, mon cher,” Dahlia ends the call after her casual term of endearment, cher and mon cher as normal to her as bud or pal. Maybe it’s just a Cajun French Louisiana thing, or it’s one of the many things she picked up from her dad. She instinctively plays with the ring that hangs from a chain around her neck, he was always so proud of where he came from, teaching her Cajun French from the moment she could talk. Would he be upset with her leaving the state? 

She shakes the thought from her head, she can’t concern herself with the opinions of people who aren’t here, as much as they’d mean to her. Dahlia finally has the tools to be independent and make her own way in this world, she needs to seize any and every opportunity. She double checks that her door is locked, before stripping out of her clothes. 

Dahlia sets her phone to play music as she takes a shower, singing along to it as hot water eases her aching muscles. Once she’s cleaned, she dries off and starts to make her way to the bed where her luggage is. 

The large white blooms on the table between the bed and window, draw her eye, her suspicion confirmed that they’re the same as the fields of flowers she saw on her way here. They must be a common flower here. She’s not a plant person, but she can appreciate pretty flowers when she sees them. The petals are soft against her finger and she pulls out one of the fresh flowers, sniffing at it. It tickles her nose, the soft scent pleasant, but it makes her want to sneeze. She tucks it back in the vase and scrubs at her nose.

Her vision swims for a moment, suddenly light-headed. She hasn’t slept much and has been driving a lot, her eyes must be tired as well. 

Dahlia digs some comfy sleeping clothes from her bag to change into. Content in her shorts and tee, the hotel much warmer than the outside chill. She pushes her luggage off her bed and takes a look at the Hope County map. 

Her vision is still swimming but she reaffirms where she needs to be tomorrow for her interview. It’s over in Fall’s End at the Sheriff’s Department. Dahlia fishes a marker out of her discarded jacket pocket and then starts to write directions down on her right forearm before tucking the map away. 

She rifles a cigarette from her quickly emptying pack, most places don’t like their hotel rooms stinking like nicotine.

Cool air rushes in as she opens the window, she leans against the windowsill, appreciating the view of the moonlight reflecting in the pool of spring water. Montana really is beautiful. 

She lights her cigarette, looking away for a second to ignite it. 

“Ooooh ooooh~” A soft melodic voice drifts in, piercing the quiet, and Dahlia’s head snaps back to the window. 

In the grass, a woman surrounded by green mist spins and dances, singing softly into the night. She’s young, but still older than Dahlia with dirty blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. A white lace dress with flowers across the waist and skirt. Illuminated by moonlight, a heavenly glow, angelic but singing a siren’s song. 

Who would be out there at this time of night?

Dahlia’s the only one in the hotel and she doubts the staff indulges in nightly dance sessions. 

When did Dahlia start leaning further out the window? 

Every fiber of her being screams at her to run to the woman. To jump out the window if she has to, anything to get closer to the hauntingly beautiful woman dancing along the decks before the spring. 

Dahlia slams the window shut, quick and hard enough to rattle it. It’s late, she’s exhausted, she’s ridden her bike almost twenty-eight hours straight. Only stopping for a late night in a shitty hotel in Denver before getting back on the road at eight am this morning. 

Between ghost stories and exhaustion her brain is fucking with her. 

The woman’s singing is still there. 

Softer now but still present, still beckoning. 

Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared to bolt in order to go find that woman. 

She smashes her fist against the side of her head, the impact of her knuckles rattling her skull as she literally tries to knock sense into herself. Her visions seem to clear a bit and she can’t hear the singing anymore, but she also might have concussed herself. 

Her cigarette is stamped out before she’s even halfway through it and she’s setting her phone alarm before jumping into the bed. 

She buries her face in the pillow, no matter what she hears or thinks she’ll see, she’s not going anywhere until the morning. This interview is the most stressful thing she’s dealt with in years, so much rides on it, and she can’t be exhausted tomorrow from chasing fairy ghosts or what the fuck ever. 

Her mind is just playing tricks on her, it’s an asshole, it does that. 

She’s not certain exactly when she fell asleep, but the next thing she knows her alarm is going off. Dahlia groans and forces herself out of bed, she hates waking up. Her interview isn’t even late, but god, fuck waking up. 

Her head is clearer now, no swimming in her vision and no singing or sirens. She forces her way out of bed, groggily trying to go about her day. 

She’s running late, she’s always running late, time isn’t real.

After taking her sweet sleepy time to get herself put together and inhaling a room service breakfast, Dahlia is running down the hotel stairs and scrubbing syrup off her chin. Why does she do this to herself? The receptionist calls out something and she waves her off. 

Helmet slapped on and engine revving, she guns it out of the parking lot and makes her way to towards the Valley. She comes to a bridge and pulls her arm from her jacket to read her scribbled directions, remembering too late that she can’t read her own handwriting. 

She squints trying to decipher what the hell she wrote, her chicken scratch leaving a lot to be desired. It looks like it might say she’s going to Holland Valley or Halland Volley or Hallard, something to that effect by crossing the Honne…Benne…Rover….Dridge… Why does she do this to herself?

She’s probably on the right track, probably. Dahlia readjusts her jacket, confirming that her mess of directions won’t be getting any clearer the longer she stares at it and makes her way over the bridge. More signs hang from the inner framework of the bridge, half of them bearing a cross symbol with what looks like sunbeams coming from the center, the other half states The Power Of YES; Take The Leap.

Heebie jeebies nest in her gut, those goosebumps from earlier coming back. Religion…

Maybe it was too optimistic, but she had hoped further up North she’d see less of…that. She did searches online and was told based on some statistical thing that Montana was less religious than Louisiana. But apparently religion isn’t completely avoidable in the United States. 

The crisp smell of apples manages to break through her helmet as she leaves the bridge. Apple trees as far as the eye can see, bright red fruit gleaming under sunlight, a giant orchard surrounds the road. People mill about the apple trees; couples holding hands and parents hefting their children up on their shoulders to pick the highest apples their little hands can reach. A few people look at her as she rides past, the rev of her engine and the music pounding from her helmet drawing attention. Some looks are judgmental, others unconcerned, a small kid waves at her as she passes by and she waves back, smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. There’s a constructed Apple Statue in the orchard, noting that she’s riding through the Gardenview Orchard.

Over the horizon, built into the hills of the Holland Valley is a giant Hollywood style sign that says ‘YES’. It’s infinitely less creepy than the weird man statue, but far cheesier. Whether that’s better or worse? Who knows, but Hope County is definitely…weirder than she anticipated. 

She passes through the orchard and coming up on the left apple trees are replaced with pumpkins on the ground. Fields growing them, some clearly bigger and further along in the growing process, none fully ripe, however. A house is built among the fields, one fence with a sign that says Rae-Rae’s Pumpkin Farm. 

There’s a couple walking around, holding hands, but more importantly there’s a dog. A mottled coat of black, white, and blue gray with a bandana around their neck. The dog’s head raises at the rev of Dahlia’s motorcycle engine passing by on the road, tail wagging but he doesn’t run out, a well-trained doggo. 

She’s running late. 

She doesn’t have time. 

One pet can’t hurt. 

Dahlia comes to a screeching halt, tires squealing and bracing herself against her handlebars of her bike so she doesn’t fly across the farm. The couple taken aback, staring wide-eyed at her as she kills her music and yanks off her helmet. The doggie is still wagging its tail, eager to meet their new friend. 

“Can I pet your dog?” 

The couple is older, by Dahlia standards, so probably around their thirties…or forties…or twenties…ages confuse her. A woman with short sandy hair and a man with a knit hat over his head, the woman’s dropped jaw becomes a soft smile, her eyes gentle. 

“Of course,” a thick southern accent tints her voice, “Boomer’s doesn’t know a stranger.” 

Dahlia stays outside the wooden fence, not wanting to step on crops or something, but she leans over it. Boomer’s big brown eyes landing on her, so cute, she already loves him. A few coos and he’s already rushing over, standing to put his paws at the top of the fence so he can get some much-deserved love. She pets the top of his head, scratching behind his ears and around his neck. He eagerly leans into scritch and pet, licking her. 

“Awww, such a good boy, yes you are,” she praises and laughs, soaking it in. Even if she’s running late, this is more than worth it. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks. 

“Nah, here for a job interview,” Dahlia answers, hugging around Boomer’s neck as she snuggles him. 

“Where you interviewing at?” 

“Sheriff’s department.” 

“You’re kind of young for a cop, ain’tcha?”

“I’m an adult,” she says, shrugging her shoulders through the hug. She is a young adult and that’s all that needs to be said on that. 

“They finally trying to fill that deputy position?” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Sorry, to brush you off so soon, but we have to go pick up some equipment before noon and we’re already cutting it close.” 

Shit, right, time. She’s running late too, but the dog was worth it. 

“No problem, have a good one, you keep being a good boy, Boomer.” 

She gives a final scratch to his head, then slides her helmet back on, waving off the couple as she hops back on her bike. Her nerves have eased slightly at having gotten some time with a dog and even if she’s late, she doesn’t regret it. 

Her engine revs and she’s back to traveling down the quiet Montana roads. The sheriff’s department is in Fall’s End. A water tower baring the town’s name lets her know she’s arrived in the right area. It’s not a huge town. Along the main road, there’s the sheriff’s department, a general store, a bar, a church. There’s little streets and roadways showing that beyond those there’s houses and an apartment complex. Not huge, but certainly bigger than where she’s from, which…isn’t saying much. 

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the sheriff’s department, all those initially dissipated nerves are bubbling back to the surface. Her stomach in absolute knots and her muscles tense with anxiety. She shuts off her bike and pockets her keys then pulls off her helmet, fiddling with her hair. A deep breath, before she finally steels herself to step into the building. 

There’s a desk to Dahlia’s right when she enters the building, an older woman with a layered bob of red hair. 

“There something I can help you with, darling?” Her southern accented voice asks. 

“I have an interview with the sheriff.”

“Really,” the woman’s eyes scan Dahlia up and down, eyebrows furrowed in judgement, “can I get your name?” 

“Hale,” she murmurs, once again fiddling with her messy strands of dark hair. She knows she doesn’t exactly look the most professional right now. But professional clothes and motorcycles don’t truly mix. The woman, her desk tag says N. McClure, shuffles through some documents and reads over something. 

“Okay, just take a seat and I’ll let Earl know you’re here.”

Dahlia plops down in one of the reception area’s chairs, fiddling with the cat ears on her motorcycle helmet. Her leg bounces up and down, shaking out excess energy as the woman at the desk starts to call back, asking for Whitehorse. It’ll be fine, Dahlia reassures herself, Lloyd and Caroline have been talking her up to their old friend. All she needs to do is be herself, maybe, probably not. She’s kind of a mess. 

The clock hand ticks slowly, Dahlia feeling like she’s about to go crazy waiting for her interview to start. Finally, the woman hangs up the phone she was calling back to Whitehorse on, a soft smile on her face that pulls at the wrinkles around her eyes. 

“Earl’s ready to talk to you, come on back.”

The older woman steps out and helps show Dahlia to the office door, passing through a bullpen style office area to get there, Sheriff Whitehorse is scrawled on a plaque by the door. Dahlia knocks and he tells her to come on in, she slowly opens the door and steps in. There’s a modest sized quaint office with only a few personal touches. She’s only seen old photos Lloyd had of himself and Whitehorse, from way back in police academy. The man before her is much older than he was in those photos, weathered with wrinkled skin. He looks like an old sheriff pulled directly from a movie; green uniform, cowboy hat, scraggly brown hair, and a mustache.

“You’re Lloyd and Caroline’s Stray, right?” He says, standing up from his desk to shake her hand over it. He’s over a foot taller than her, probably close to a foot and a half. His hand swallows her own whole, it’s probably bigger than her face. 

“Holy shit, you’re tall.” 

That’s not a good way to start an interview, but he seems to be laughing and smiling. So, maybe it’s fine. Lloyd once said she has a charm about her despite her lack of tact or decorum. She’s still trying to figure out what that charm is, but still. 

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. She follows suit, leg still bouncing like it was in the waiting room. Whitehorse puts a manilla folder down on the desk, the little tab labeled D. Hale. It’s surprisingly thick for someone who’s never met her in person. 

“Lloyd and Caroline talk highly of you, hell the whole town does.” 

“The whole town…?” She raises an eyebrow, what’s that supposed to mean? Reinette, Louisiana is a small town, it’s police department has about six people in total and everyone knows everyone. But certainly, they wouldn’t call up Whitehorse to talk about her. 

“I swear Lloyd must have handed out the stations number to everyone down there, we’ve been getting two, three calls a day of people who can’t say enough good things about you.” 

“Oh god.” Heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks, god damn it, Lloyd. 

“You’ve left quite an impression on the place.” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Dahlia pushes some hair off her face, fidgeting with the locks.

“And you haven’t been working there long, have you?”

“Not counting training, about a year and a half, I know I don’t have much experience.” 

“Still making such an impact in a short amount of time, says something.” 

“Thanks.” His words soothe her nerves and embarrassment a bit, maybe this will go well.

“But, there’s the issue of your record…”

“My record…?” She shouldn’t have a record, he opens the manilla folder and she feels bile raise in the back of her throat. 

“Between what’s on the books and what everyone was saying, I was starting to wonder if there were two of you, Hale. Runaways, break in, fights, attempted grand theft auto, and petty thefts, the list goes on. Doesn’t exactly scream future cop.” 

“I thought records got expunged at eighteen.”

“If you request it.” 

“Oh…well then…”

“I know this all happened when you were a minor and you’ve been clear for the past two or so years, but…”

“It still looks bad, I know, I know. I’m not going to try to tell you some bullshit excuse or sob story. I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have for a lot of reasons. I regret most of it, not all of it, but most of it. Lloyd and Caroline helped me get my life back on track, I know two years doesn’t seem like a long time, but I’m not the same kid I was when I did that shit.”

That what she tells him, but she’s not sure how much she believes it. It feels more like her situation’s changed than she’s changed, but if she just said that she’s no longer a delinquent because she doesn’t need to be, well, it wouldn’t sound as good or employable. 

“What made you wanna be a cop?”

“Wanted to help people,” she answers with a shrug, it’s not really anything more complicated than that. Whitehorse huffs out what sounds like a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, I gotta ask, why here? Lloyd and the whole town loves you. It’s a hell of a move and the pay raise ain’t much.”

“Look,” she sighs and folds her hands on top of her motorcycle helmet, calming her body down, “I love Reinette, I love Lloyd and I love Caroline. I owe them and the whole town a debt that I’ll never pay back. But, I’m twenty years old. I’m not their kid and even if I was it’d be time for me to go, I’ve taken enough of their time, money, and everything. Reinette, bless the town’s heart, it’s...dying. There’s more cows than people, our station has more cars than officers. It won’t be long before they do away with the town’s department and just do everything through the Parish. And the parish’s department doesn’t need any more officers.”

Her throat constricts as bile raises in the back of it, her stomach churning. After everything that town and its people have done for her, she’s leaving them. A traitor, betrayer. 

“You figure any of those officers will even find work in the parish, at all?” He asks with a knowing, soft look in his eye. If he keeps in contact with Lloyd, he’s already well aware of the trouble in Reinette. 

“I doubt it, town’s a sinking ship. Lloyd…he’s willing to go down with it,” her eyes sting and she clenches her jaw, containing herself, “I can’t do that. As much as they all mean to me, I can’t. Lloyd’s gonna retire when it goes under, I’m twenty, the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m trying to help people; I’m trying to make a difference. But my hands keep getting tied because of money, resources, anything and everything. Lloyd and Caroline gave me the means and the tools to make something of myself, I’m not gonna piss that away because some fucker decided we weren’t worth investing in, I…”

She’s clenching her fists and nearly smacking her helmet, anger and frustration welling up inside of her, a geyser of emotions threatening to break through. This is an interview, she can’t do this, can’t be emotional. She needs to stop this, a deep breath before she starts to speak again. 

“I can do more here, I know no place is perfect, but I can do more here.” 

“Well, no one can say you’re not passionate.” Whitehorse lets out another chuckle, seemingly amused. 

“Sorry, certain shit, just winds me up.” She massages the back of her neck, why is she such a fucking idiot? No one wants to hire a cop who can’t keep their cool and throws a fit. She was supposed to tone down her dumbassery, not ramp it up. 

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah…” She half-heartedly agrees, Whitehorse is trying to make her feel better. Her interview has become him trying to console her, absolutely pathetic. She might as well call Lloyd and Caroline now and tell them she blew it. 

“You got any questions for me?” 

“Uh…”

Did she just fuck this up as bad as she thinks she did?

“Not really, I just wanna get to work.” That earns her another chuckle from Whitehorse, even if he doesn’t think she’s competent, at least she’s entertaining it seems. 

“Full of piss and vinegar, ain’t ya?” 

“To say the least.” She lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no mirth of joy behind it. Not a shred of happiness as she thinks about what a fucking idiot she is. 

“Well, if that’s all,” Whitehorse stands up from his desk, “I’ll go ahead and show you out.” 

Dahlia stands up, the sheriff places a large hand on her back as they leave his office, finding their way back into the reception area. 

“It was nice to finally meet you, Hale.” 

“Same, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.” She’s sure that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, especially after that beyond trash interview. 

“It’s no problem at all, I-”

The doors to the department open, a man and a woman in green deputy uniforms coming in. Another giant, the man is barely an inch of two shorter than Whitehorse, with shaggy dark hair and blue eyes. More importantly, the woman while taller doesn’t absolutely tower over Dahlia, her long black hair is braided over her shoulder and her olive skin makes her hunter green eyes stand out all the more. 

Dahlia’s throat feels tight and her heart race is a little faster. So…that’s a thing. 

“We running a daycare, now?” The guy asks, looking down his nose at Dahlia, though that might just be because of the height difference. Either way, she glares at him, he’s been around her a grand total of five seconds and he’s being a dick. 

“Pratt…” The woman, her name tag says J. Hudson, rolls her eyes at him. Her voice is warm and rich; why is Dahlia’s face so hot? Is she sick? Has the Montana weather already kicked her ass, what is this?

“This is one of the interviewees. Hale, these are my deputies.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Hudson flashes a soft smile and what is Dahlia’s heart doing? It’s like someone’s squeezing it and filled her gut with bugs while they were at it. She fucks up an interview and now she needs a doctor, great. 

“Same, I was, uh, just on my way out actually.” She needs to go sleep off whatever the fuck has just hit her. 

“Good luck,” the taller woman gives a friendly tap to Dahlia’s bicep, “hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” 

Dahlia is dying.

That’s the only explanation. She fucked up an interview and now she has the heart plague or some shit, hell of a day. 

“Uh, yeah, I, um, ‘preciate it.” She’s avoiding eye contact and she doesn’t know why she's stumbling over her words and she doesn’t know why.

“Pssh,” Pratt scoffs, “she’s gonna need it.” 

Suddenly, she can talk again. Weird. Hudson and Whitehorse shake their heads, clearly use to his bullshit

“Sorry about Pratt, he’s, well he’s Pratt.” 

“Eh, every station has at least one cop who’s just trying to make up for his tiny dick.” 

“I assure you, I-”

“Enough,” Whitehorse cuts him off, talking like he’s breaking up a child’s squabbling. Doesn’t really help make her look any more mature or competent, way to steer into the skid, Dahlia. 

“For the millionth time, no one wants to hear about your dick, Pratt.” Hudson rolls her eyes, why is that being said for the millionth time?

“Well, that’s certainly my cue to go, have a good one.” 

Dahlia quickly waves off the sheriff and deputies, making her escape. She takes the couple steps to her motorcycle with quick rigid movement, making sure she’s away from windows or the glass door, not wanting any of them to see her. 

She lets out a low guttural groan muffled by how tightly her jaw is clenched jaw and knocks her knuckles against the back of her head. 

Idiot, she fucked everything up by going on some huge ass fucking rant. 

Despite the distance, this was a phenomenal opportunity the best she’s had. It’s not like she hasn’t looked into place in Louisiana, but something is always wrong. She’s never made it as far as the interview. Either she never gets a call back, maybe they’d seen her records the same way Whitehorse did and didn’t even bother giving her that chance. Or she’d learn the town, parish, city, whatever was no better off than Reinette. One of the sheriffs she talked to on the phone knew her stepfather and recognized her name, nearly making her puke before she hung up. 

This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the best chance she’s had. Whitehorse has the Lloyd seal of approval which is as good as gold. And as much as the distance is guilt inducing…, the fear of betrayal and abandoning people who mean so much to her. But, she needs somewhere far away. 

As many good memories as Lloyd, Caroline, and the people of Reinette have given her. There are still too many bad ones, too many people figuring out where she came from, one too many bad memories trying to be more than just that. As much as it may eat her up to leave, it’ll eat her up even more to stay. Between the impending unemployment and her own past, every good moment there has a shadow looming over it. 

When she gets back to Reinette she’ll start working to get her record taken care of. Once that’s settled, it’s back to job hunting. A bump in the road, a moment of frustration, but she’ll come out the other end. She always does. 

Her stomach growls, burning through a pack of cigarettes and stress binge eating sound like a great way to deal with this. She’ll find some place to stuff her face and call Lloyd once she gets back to the hotel. 

There’s a general store, she doesn’t know if the bar lets minors in, so it’s probably her best place to grab some quick snack. She plops her helmet on and makes the short drive to the store, parking her bike outside and pulling her helmet back off to light a cigarette by the dumpsters. Her stressed brain is desperately craving nicotine. 

She rips open her pack of cigarettes and lights one up, bringing it to her lips. Smoke pools in her lungs, clawing to her insides and easing her nerves if only for a second. Holding it there for a moment before breathing it out into the air. Her eyes are drawn to the neon sign of The Spread Eagle bar, even bright in the daylight. It also seems to have some activity despite the early hour. Well, early for a bar. A white truck pulls up in front of the building, a man with long grungy hair climbing out of the passenger seat. 

Those odd pains in her chest and churns in her stomach fade as she inhales the smoke, looking up at the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blows through, carrying the gray trails away with it. Montana really is beautiful…

“Get back here!” A woman yells out, door to the bar swinging open violent as the man with long hair comes rushing back out, arms piled high with crates of alcohol. 

Dahlia drops her cigarette and helmet, bolting towards the bar, as the thief tries to scramble into the back of the pickup truck. He gets the crates set down, but she’s grabbed the back of his shirt before he can climb in. A harsh yank, pulling the tall man back into her and away from the truck. She encircles her arms under his armpits and locks her hands behind his neck, grappling into a full nelson hold that keeps him from running off. The odd angle of these heights and the way he was yanked from the back of the truck leaves him on his knees in his grasp. 

“Someone call the sheriff’s department!” She yells out, she doesn’t have any jurisdiction here or cuffs to actually arrest the guy. 

He tries to fight back against the hold, attempting to break free, but all he manages to do is writhe and squirm. The door of the truck swings open, the driver jumping out, his feet hitting the ground with a heavy sound. Another man easily a foot or more taller than her. 

“Help me, brother Theodore,” the man in her hold struggles to beg for help. 

“We have strict orders from John Seed to confiscate this liquor.” 

“Don’t know or care who that is, mon cher.” 

“Someone like you doesn’t deserve to know him,” the guy tells her, sneering and she sees his finger twitch, brushing over the gun in his belt holster. She can’t have firearms going off in a residential area. 

“All you’ll do is end up shootin’ your friend, don’t be stupid. Liquor ain’t worth bloodshed.” 

He lets out a sigh and his hand relax, something clicking in his mind. The man, Theodore, chews his lip, eyes flickering as she nearly sees the gears turning in his head. 

“What’s going on here?” A familiar rough voice asks over Dahlia’s shoulder, she doesn’t need to look to know Whitehorse has come to investigate. Even if she did, she wouldn’t dare look away from the man in front of her, not until she’s sure he won’t try to shoot. 

“These pieces of shit peggies were trying to steal my liquor stash,” a woman explains, somewhere behind Dahlia. 

“Liquors still in the back of the truck,” Dahlia tells them, none of it seemed to break, so hopefully it won’t hurt the bar too much. 

“If it wasn’t for her, they would have cost me a month’s worth of sales.” 

“Pratt, Hudson,” Whitehorse calls the names of his deputies. 

“I got it here,” Hudson taps on Dahlia arm, cuffs in hand, and that weird heart thing is happening again. 

“Um, yeah, o-of course.” She maneuvers away from the guy, she’s never stumbled over her words like that before. Hudson cuffs the guy and starts reading his rights off. 

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Pratt barks out at the Theodore guy who's surprisingly obedient as he lets the deputy cuff him. 

Dahlia scratches at her nose, watching the scene unfold. She’s finally gotten a good look at the woman who was being robbed. 

And, not only is everyone here tall, they’re also apparently beautiful. The woman is than both Dahlia and Hudson, with honey blonde hair tucked up into a bun and soft blue eyes. Her features are soft, cherubic almost, with freckles over the bridge of her nose. 

Have women always been this pretty?

When did women start being this pretty?

The fuck is her heart doing?

“Looks like it’s a good thing you were here,” Whitehorse tells her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “you managed to get Mary May’s liquor back and stopped it from escalating.” 

“Oh, yeah, I guess.” 

“Someone you know, sheriff?” The blonde, Mary May asks. His smile gets wider and he squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a comforting touch. 

“This is my new Junior Deputy.” 

“I am?” 

He’s not serious, there’s no way, he has to be fucking with her. 

“Unless you changed your mind?” 

“Hell no,” she shakes her head, “I am the new Junior Deputy, wait, Junior?”

“You’ll start with a six-month probationary hire, paid of course, manage that and we’ll take you on permanently.” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

“You’ll start next, c’mon down to the station Mary, we’ll book ‘em and get your report in.” 

“See you around, stranger,” Mary May tells her as she follows after Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt forcing the thieves along. Theodore shooting a glare Dahlia’s way. 

“Look forward to working with you, Rookie.” 

“Pfft, I give her a week, tops.” 

And with that, Dahlia is left alone on the road of Falls End…with a new job. 

She got the job. 

She’s got to get through the probationary hire, but she got the job. Holy shit. Holy shit. And she starts in a week. She needs to call Lloyd and Caroline, she needs to find somewhere to live, there’s so much to do. 

Dahlia is practically skipping back over to her helmet and bike. She’s gotta start getting her ducks in a row. 

She speeds her way back through Hope County, making her way back to the hotel. She has so many fucking calls to make and shit to go through. Before she knows it she’s back in the Kings Spring Hotel parking lot, fumbling to get her phone. As silly as it may be, she’d rather call Lloyd and Caroline in a less populated area. She’s grinning ear to ear, enough to hurt her cheeks, she looks like a dork and that’s not going to get any better. Helmet under her arm, she dials Lloyd as she paces in the isolated parking lot. 

“How’d it go?” Lloyd is asking before she even says hi. 

“Six months, probationary hire, then we’ll go from there.” 

‘So, you got the job?” 

“That was the bummer way of saying I got the job, yeah.” 

“I can hear you smiling!” 

“Shut it!” 

“Caroline! She got the job, yeah!” 

“I,” she rubs a hand down her face, “I thought for sure I blew it.” 

“What changed?” 

“Some bar across the street got robbed right after my interview, I stepped in, next thing I know I’m the Junior Deputy.”

“Holy fuck, do you know what that is, Stray?” 

“Dumb luck?” 

“Fate, Stray, it’s fucking fate! The world telling you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be!” 

“You really are a sap, ain’t ya?” 

“What are you doing now?” 

“I’m staying another night here, but once I hop off I gotta start looking into where I’m gonna stay. I start in a week, so I gotta start moving, I’ll see you all in two or three days once I make the drive. It’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.” 

“Man, you’re really leaving.” 

“No crying.” 

“Seems like yesterday Caroline found you in the barn.” 

“No crying.” 

“You were so thin, just a little bag of bones…” His voice is choking up.

“I’m hanging up, you cry baby!” 

She does just that, smiling up at the sky. It’s happening, it’s really happening. It feels like the start of a new life, a new her. There’s a jump in her step as she makes her way back into the hotel, room service food and she’ll start making phone calls. 

“Miss Hale!” The soft lilted voice of the receptionist calls out when she sees Dahlia. 

“Oh, hey.” Dahlia walks to the desk, head tilted in question, what could she need?

“A heads up, we’re switching the water in the tank for the shower and bath system to water pumped in from the spring.” 

“Oh, that’s cool.” 

“It’s so much more relaxing than regular tap water, be sure to use it tonight.” 

“Uh yeah, thanks, by the way can I order some room service?” 

“Of course.” 

Dahlia goes through her order for room service, being assured the order will be put in and delivered before she knows it. With that she goes back up to her room, she starts digging through the bedside drawer, searching for a phone book for the area. There’s a white book in the top drawer, with that same strange cross like symbol that was on the signs along the bridge. She throws it on the bed, finding a local phone book beneath it, much more important. 

She starts rifling through pages. Hope County is mostly a trailer park town, for people who can’t afford to build or buy an actual home and land. There is an apartment complex in Falls End, but the rent is high for pretty small apartments. The prices probably jacked since housing is so limited. She’d rather get a whole trailer to herself for cheaper and just travel further for work. 

Hours pass by her making phone calls, seeing about housing and stuffing food in her face when she’s not talking. The Silver Lake Trailer Park that’s nearest the station has no vacancy or trailers available for rent, but they refer her to the Moonflower Trailer Park. It’s some distance, but with how fast she rides her bike, it’s doable. It’s the only place with vacancy, she’ll drop by with a down payment and check out the trailer tomorrow before she heads back to Louisiana to get her stuff and everything tidied up there. The world outside the hotel window has gone dark, moon hanging bright in the sky. 

That settled she finishes off her food and collapses back on the bed. She’s still smiling, grinning ear to ear.

“Wooooooo!” She yells out and pumps her fist up at the ceiling, fuck yeah, she’s got this. 

She’ll grab one of those spring water showers and then pass out for the night. She grabs her phone and sets it up to play music in the bathroom while she washes up. Her clothes hit the floor, air conditioner chilling her skin as she waits for the water to heat up. It has a soft floral scent and is tinted slightly green, spring water. 

She steps in under the hot spray of water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Her muscles relax under the water and steam, as she scrubs the hotel soap into her skin. She blinks her eyes open once she’s done washing her hair, finding her vision clouding, her body feeling heavier and heavier. Must be the exhaustion of the day. Dahlia quickly finishes washing, the last thing she needs is to fall asleep in the shower again. 

Her steps are shaky, her body swaying as the world swims around her. Colors distort and shift in prisms before her eyes. It’s like the night before, but times a million. Her movements sluggish as she dries herself and quickly pulls on her sleep clothes. She was feeling ill earlier, maybe it’s catching up to her? But it doesn’t feel the same. Not panicky and nervous. One of her favorite songs starts to play through her phone, though its eerie tones aren’t as welcomed in this moment. 

She grips the sink for leverage, steadying herself as she looks into the mirror

_ All our times have come. _

Her dark brown eyes aren’t dark brown, not quite. She tugs at her eyelids, the iris growing milkier and lighter than she’s ever seen it. What the hell is this? A soft melodic laugh echoes through the room, like it’s near. 

_ Here but now they're gone. _

She stumbles out of the bathroom, finding her empty bedroom. Nothing unusual. 

_ Seasons don't fear the reaper. _

The laugh rings out again, a flash of white passing by her open door. When did it open? She didn’t leave it open. 

_ Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain... _

She’s walking out her door before she can give it another thought, looking back and forth across the hall, who’s there? 

_ We can be like they are _

Her feet pad down the hallway, steps suddenly sure and confident as she tries to follow the voice. Like her body is being drawn, pulled, following sheer instinct. She needs to find them. 

_ Come on baby... don't fear the reaper _

A flash of white, the swish of lace fabric, that laugh again vanishing into one of the rooms. Dahlia is there, trying to wrench open the door. Then it rings out from behind her. 

_ Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper _

A woman stands at the end of a long hallway, the one from the tight before. Long sandy hair and beautiful green eyes. A blue butterfly perches itself on her fingers, the woman looking at it in awe. Dahlia takes slow steps forward, she wants to speak, ask who she is and what she’s doing here. But her tongue is heavy, her throat tight, vocal cords numb, not a sound escaping. 

_ Baby I'm your man... _

Green eyes flicker from the butterfly to Dahlia, a soft almost mischievous smile tugging at the woman’s lips. She laughs again as Dahlia nears her, then she runs, childish and giggling she runs towards one of the rooms. Dahlia is chasing her even after she vanishes from sight, legs moving without her permission, instinct driving her to reach this woman. She doesn’t know why, but she needs to reach her, touch her. Be closer. 

_ La la la la la _

_ La la la la la _

The laughter turns into soft humming, singing echoing through the halls. Somehow the sound is everywhere, all consuming and right in her ear, but also distant the source too far away for her to find. She walks down the halls, taking turns and climbing up stairs, following her instinct that pulls her in each direction she goes. 

_ Valentine is done _

Flashes of white fabric, doors closing and shutting. It’s a game of tag that she can’t seem to win, the small hotel has somehow become a labyrinth as she tries to find the humming woman. Short hallways and few rooms have been traded for never ending paths with room lining them. 

_ Here but now they're gone _

Sometimes spacious and open, other times claustrophobic, choking, walls scraping the skin of her arms where she has to fear she might become stuck. More halls and more floors than she’s ever seen, winding paths that make her dizzy. But she can’t stop searching for that woman. 

_ Romeo and Juliet _

One more turn, the woman is at the end of a hallway. Standing before a door, softly singing to what is now two butterflies balanced on her fingers. Dahlia starts to walk down the hallway, tight, claustrophobic. She keeps her hands on the walls as if it will give her more space, as if she could force the walls to open wider for her. 

_ Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet _

Her heartbeat races as she walks closer and closer, the walls threatening to crush her between them. She can hardly breathe, every breath ragged and tight. Dying. She feels like she’s dying, air being stolen from her lungs and heart pounding lie it’s trying to escape her chest. It worsens with every step she takes near the woman. 

_ 40,000 men and women everyday... Like Romeo and Juliet _

Some part of her brain, the small part that doesn’t have a thick haze of fog clinging to it, tells her to run the other way. That with this feeling only growing with every step towards the siren, with her heart pounding harsher, breathing getting raspier, she’ll die if she keeps going. That this truly is a siren luring her to death, but she can’t listen to that part of her. Her body won’t. She needs to reach her. 

_ 40,000 men and women everyday... Redefine happiness _

She’s getting closer and closer; the woman isn’t running this time. Just calming singly, like she doesn’t even notice Dahlia. She tries to reach out for the woman, her fingers nearly brushing the woman’s dress sleeve. 

_ Another 40,000 coming everyday... We can be like they are _

Then the woman walks through the door, Dahlia could curse and cry if her vocal cords would only work. Once again, the woman evading her, being just out of reach. But this hall has no doors along its sides, no turns or twists. The only two options are going back or going through the door after her. It’s not even a choice. 

_ Come on baby... don't fear the reaper _

She wrenches the door open and she’s in another world. No more wood walls and floors, her bare feet touching lush grass that tickles her skin. White petals float in the air and scatter across the ground. Trees curl around the area and when she looks out at the horizon, she sees that large statue of that man looming over the area. 

_ Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper _

When she looks straight ahead at the middle of the field is the woman, she twirls, short white dress fanning out around her hips. She stops, turning to face Dahlia, she smiles softly. Delicate and angel like, she stretches her hand out. An offer, a beckoning. 

_ We'll be able to fly... don't fear the reaper _

The feeling of impending death lifts the very moment she sees the woman. Her heartbeat and her breathing easing, relief and contentment filling her body. She’s smiling and she doesn’t know why she feels alive. Free, like she can do anything. She’s walking closer and closer to the woman, each step making her happier and happier. Her body lighter and lighter. Calm and peace, she’s never known. She’s right where she belongs, she doesn’t need to be anywhere else. 

Dahlia reaches out, finally about to touch her, a touch of their hands is so simple, so minor. But it feels like the only thing she wants. All she’s ever want, like every moment in her entire life has been building up to this, being here with her, whoever she is. 

Before skin can meet skin, the siren fades to mist. 

No, no, no!

She grasps desperately at the air where the woman once was, her heart racing, her lungs stinging like the airs been knocked out of them. The world is crumbling, falling down, everything going out beneath her feet. It’s falling apart and she can’t stop it, she can’t fix it. 

Dahlia takes a heavy gasp, desperately sucking in a heavy breath and she blinks, the world around her has completely shifted. Her vision isn’t blurred, no more prisms of color before her eyes. 

Cold, goosebumps raising up on her skin, shorts and tee doing nothing to save her from the Montana breeze. She’s outside the hotel, in the world she knows. That damn statue looming still in the distance ahead of her. 

Dull. 

The landscaped she was so mesmerized by this day, seems so dull now. She feels dull, after so many emotions, so much intensity both in fear and happiness…she feels so numb. Dahlia rubs her fingers together, her craving for the feeling of another’s hand in her own…there’s an ache. She was so close, but now she’s been plunged back into reality. 

She stands out in the field outside the hotel, staring at that cement statue, it still seems to call her. Her heart telling her to go towards that looming structure, but her head tells her to go back inside the hotel. 

So, she doesn’t move. 

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just staring. 

“Miss Hale!” A voice pulls her further back into reality, the hotel receptionist walking out towards her with a large blanket. 

Dahlia blinks a few times, she no longer feels numb, the very real emotion of shame flooding in. She’s standing out in public, in her pajamas. Did she just wander out of her hotel room in her sleep clothes? She must look ridiculous. 

“Hey…”

“Is everything alright? You just walked out of your hotel, looked like you were sleepwalking.” 

“Uh…yeah, I guess.” 

That makes sense, she must have went to bed and had a weird dream…yeah. 

“Here,” the woman wraps the large blanket around Dahlia, “you must be freezing.” 

“Thanks, sorry, I, just, weird dream.” She murmurs as they walk back to the hotel, Dahlia giving one last glance at the hotel.

“Dreams are nice, aren’t they? Sometimes you just wanna stay there forever.” 


	2. Lukewarm Welcomes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...I was planning on posting this three days ago....but instead i vanished from the internet for a bit, a nice quarantine mental health crisis as i went into the weekend, we love that. 
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Cursing, anti-cop dialogue, harassment, implications of domestic/family violence

A little bell chimes over head as Dahlia steps into the registration building for the Moonflower Trailer Park, there’s little racks of magazines, pamphlets, and maps of tourist attractions. A young girl is at the desk, talking on the phone with someone as Dahlia tries to preoccupy herself with looking through things. 

A plain white pamphlet draws her eye, the simplicity of it standing out among the vividly colored ones. It’s stark white with that strange cross symbol, from the signs and book, like sunbeams coming from the center of it, black text above the symbol says, ‘Eden’s Gate’ and text below it says, ‘We Love You’. 

Before she can flip it open, the woman at the registration desk hangs up, calling her over with a “Miss?” 

“I’m Hale, we talked on the phone, I’m here to rent a trailer.”

The woman’s eyes flicker down to the pamphlet in her hand and her nose wrinkles like she’s smelled something awful. 

“You ain’t no peggie, are you?” 

“A peggie?” 

“Oh, shit, you really are new here, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, this was in one of your racks.”

“Damn it, I told them to stop unloading their shit here. Look, I don’t wanna scare you away from Hope County, but the peggies are fucknuts, steer clear of them.” 

“They dangerous?” 

“No more than most of us, but they’re major prudes and buzzkills. Like, think Jesus is gonna firebomb my ass for cumming, type buzzkills.” 

“Oh, that…sucks.” She has no idea where this woman is coming to that a religious group would think she deserves hell for it, but if the woman says they’re not dangerous, it’s not really any of her business, she really just wants her trailer. 

“C’mon, I’ll show you the trailer and we’ll get everything set up.” 

The trailer park isn’t huge, RVs and regular trailers all over it, a little playground in the middle for the resident’s kids with a slide, swings, and a little pool. A trailer with a diner inside of it, advertising bingo, and a little station filled with washing machines and dryers. None of the trailers outfitted with them. It’s a single wide with a little porch, nothing fancy; a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. All she needs, nothing seems damaged or out of place. 

“Looks, good to me.” 

“Alrighty, we’ll get your down payment and registration settled, then you can have the keys and move in whenever you feel.” 

“It’ll be a bit before I move in officially,” Dahlia tells her as they step outside the trailer, a few people bustling around 

“Why’s that?” 

“I’m coming all the way from Louisiana, still gotta get my shit moved in.” 

The woman whistles, eyes wide. 

“Hell of a move, but I tell you, you won’t find anywhere as beautiful as Hope County.” 

“I’m excited.” 

“Hey, Darcy, we got someone new coming in?” A woman asks, holding a kid on her hip, looking Dahlia up and down. 

“Yeah, we’re just getting her squared away.” 

“I’m Ruth, it’s always nice to see a new face.” 

“Thanks,” Dahlia awkwardly scratches the back of her head, “I, uh, really appreciate the warm welcome.” 

People aren’t her strong suit, she just never feels like she knows what to say, so she’d rather not say anything. 

“Shy girl, don’t worry we’ll knock that out of you, real quick. We’re like a big ole family here at the Moonflower.” 

“I’ll do my best not to get in the way.” 

“Pfft, fuck that, you better be out here getting piss faced with everyone else when the Boshaw’s throw their next barbecue.” 

“They’ll really find any excuse to get drunk, won’t they?” Darcy laughs, running a hand through her dark pixie cut. 

“I don’t even know why they still let Sharky in here, dude got banned from renting, but can still show up, do his laundry and get drunk, makes no damn sense.” 

“Y’know damn well, my mom and dad don’t have the heart to ban him completely.” 

“Yeah, yeah, but if he sets my trailer on fire again, we’re gonna be having another chat,” the toddler squirms, trying to break away for something, “someone is getting fussy, I’ll see ya around, stranger.” 

Dahlia waves goodbye to Ruth, a smile playing at her lips. The trailer park definitely seems to be a bit on the chaotic side from the sounds of it, but the warm welcome eases her nerves. She really can see herself settling in and finding some happiness. 

She goes with Darcy and takes care of the last of the details, a new key in her hand. Pride swells in her chest, it’s just a trailer, but she has her own place. She’s an adult who’s adulting. 

Once everything at the Moonflower is settled, Dahlia’s back at her hotel, haphazardly tossing her things in her luggage before check out time. Always late. Everything settled, she dashes down to the reception desk, the woman has been thankfully kind about the whole sleepwalking fiasco last night. Not only did she bring Dahlia back in with a blanket, she even had the kitchen make her some hot chocolate before she went to sleep. 

“You checking out?” 

“Yeah, gotta rush back home.” 

“Ah, we gonna see more of you in Hope County.” There’s a hopeful lilt to the woman’s voice and it makes Dahlia smile, the people in this county are really friendly. 

“I’m moving here, actually.” 

“That’s wonderful! Ah, I’m sure you’ll fit right in, I have some friend who I know would just adore you. Let me know once you’ve settled in.” 

“Uh, will do, thanks.” 

A quick wave bye and Dahlia’s headed out the door, climbing back on her back to ride the long way back to Reinette. 

It’s a long way, a pit stop in Denver along the way to keep her from losing her mind from exhaustion. She finds herself at the same roach motel she stayed at along the way to Hope County, no reason to go digging for something else. It’s past midnight when she’s checked into her room and is throwing her stuff on a creaking bed, staring at a stained ceiling. She already misses the hotel in Hope County. 

Her joints pop and crack as she heads to the shower; she washes and hums along to her music and she half expects the odd hallucinations to return. It’s later in the day and she’s no doubt more exhausted now than she was last night. But, nothing happens. Her eyes are the same familiar brown when she looks in the mirror, no sirens try to lure her away, and she doesn’t find herself stumbling through a labyrinth. 

She wakes up the next morning in the dingy little bed and she’s back on the road as soon as she can get there. By nightfall she’s made her way back to Reinette, pulling up in front of Lloyd and Caroline’s farmhouse. 

The large wooden home with warm amber light seeping out from the windows. It looks and feels like a home. Sometimes, it feels like it could be Dahlia’s. 

“Stray!” Lloyd yells out as soon as she’s stepped foot inside, pulling her into a warm bone crushing hug before she can say a word. She melts into it, hugging him right back, letting the heat of him chase away the chill outside. 

“C’mon, we’ve been waiting on ya,” he tells her after he reluctantly pulls away from the hug, tugging her towards the dinner table. The smell of homemade stew hitting her nose and making her stomach growl, she can’t remember a time before Lloyd and Caroline where she could come home to an actual cooked meal. She doesn’t think it ever existed. 

“So, what exactly happened, something about a bar?” Caroline asks, as Dahlia begins to gobble up her food. 

“Well,” she slurs out her words around her mouthful of food, unwilling to stop eating just for a conversation, “there’s some bar in Fall’s End, some jackass tried to rob it and next thing I know Whitehorse is calling me his Junior Deputy.” 

“Junior Deputy?” Caroline refills Dahlia’s bowl as soon as she hears the spoon scratching against the china, her eyebrow is raised, and Lloyd looks like he’s holding back a laugh. 

“Thanks, uh, I guess it’s a term they use for their rookie deputies up there.” She shrugs, the term was strange, but she didn’t give it much more thought. 

Lloyd’s unable to hold back his laughter anymore, face going beet red as he bursts into chuckles. Dahlia narrows her eyes at him, unsure what exactly could be so funny.

“That’s what they call the program for the little kids, Stray, when you give ‘em cardboard badges and stickers, they’re Junior Deputies. Earl was giving you shit, you were just too dumb to notice.”

Heat crawls up Dahlia’s face, she’s not sure if it’s from anger or embarrassment. Either way, she’s not happy and finds herself throwing a dinner roll at Lloyd’s head.

“Hey. I’m not dealing with any mess,” Caroline threatens, but Dahlia is busy glaring at Lloyd.

“He knows damn well I’m not a kid.”

“No one would know just by looking at ya.”

“You waste one more roll, you’ll be doing the dishes by yourself.”

Dahlia lowers her arm and instead shoves it in her mouth, looking at Caroline as she chews it, trying to ask if she’s happy now without the words, but the older woman simply rolls her eyes.

“Look, you know damn well that hazing is part of a new job, you aren’t gonna manage to avoid it.”

“Yeah, yeah, one of the other deputies was busting my balls before I even got the job.”

“Just means they knew you’d get the job,” Lloyd says with a grin.

“I’m pretty sure he’s just an asshole.”

“You thought that about Chase, too.” Chase is one of the officers for the Reinette department, a little shit.

“Yeah and I was right, Chase is an asshole.”

“But you don’t mind it anymore.”

“Sure...we’ll go with that.”

“Was everyone there giving you a hard time?”

“Uh,” her heart seems to beat a little faster when she thinks of Hudson, what is wrong with her, “no, the other deputy was…nice…” 

Caroline and Lloyd shoot each other some look, a meaning behind it that Dahlia can’t catch. 

“Is something wrong?”

“Uh, no, just for some reason when I met that deputy, I just got all weird, I guess.” 

“Weird?” 

“Yeah, like my heart was racing, I felt like I was burning up. It was super weird.” 

“Oh my god.” Caroline places a hand to her smiling mouth, looking over at Lloyd like she just struck gold. 

“Holy shit, I can’t believe it.” 

“Can’t believe what?” Dahlia asks, what the fuck kind of conversation are they having with their eyes, what are they freaking out about. 

“I was starting to think it wasn’t gonna happen, which I mean, is fine some people just don’t feel that sort of way. But, here we are.” 

“She really is growing up,” Caroline remarks, still smiling. 

“I don’t know what you’re freaking out about, I’m probably just allergic to her perfume or something, I don’t know.” That makes sense, right? Why are they freaking out?

“Her?” Caroline raises an eyebrow, why does it matter? Why does any of this matter?

“Eh, lets be honest, Care Bear, are you really surprised?” 

“No, but it’s nice to know, would have been nicer to know when I was trying to set her up with Susan’s boy.”

“Ugh, Susan’s boy, guy or girl Stray needs someone with more than two braincells.” 

“She barely has any braincells.”

“Rude.” 

“That’s exactly why she needs someone with a brain! You can’t have two idiots, that’s how someone ends up dead. You can have a smart person and another smart person, you can have an idiot and a smart person. But you can’t have two idiots, it’s a disaster in the making.” 

“Hey, I’m not an idiot!” 

“Look, it’s not meant to be an insult.” 

“That’s literally the only way it can be meant.” 

“I don’t mean that you’re stupid, you’re just…what’s the word I’m looking for Caroline?” 

“Stupid.” 

“I will start throwing food again.” 

“Okay, okay, lets change the subject for now,” Lloyd holds his hands up in mock surrender, “that bar you were talking about in Falls End, wasn’t the Spread Eagle was it?”

Lloyd was actually born and raised in Hope County, but he left when he was around twenty-eight. He always tells the story of him moving to Reinette like it was magic, taking over an inherited farm from an estranged relative after their death, meeting Caroline, falling instantly and love, raising more foster children than Dahlia could imagine. They had just stopped taking in foster children, having adopted and raised the last one into adulthood, when Dahlia ended up in their barn. Lloyd, ever the dramatic, likened it to adopting cats and then once you’re done adopting, a stray just wanders in and adopts you. 

“Yeah, you know the place?” 

“Gary and Irene always use to give me and Earl discounts, it was always the first place we went after a shift.” 

She can see that, so easily in her mind, the two men when they were younger leaving a long drawn out shift to let off steam in the local bar. It’s hard to imagine just how good of friends they must have been, spending time together after every workday and staying in contact even when Lloyd moved so far away. She can’t imagine having a friend like that. 

“I think the woman running it was called Mary May, something like that?” 

“Seriously, holy shit, Mary May was their little girl, my god she’s all grown up.”

“You’re old.” 

“Thanks, Stray.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“You know, we should take a trip back to Montana sometime Care Bear, it’s been a while, plus we got a new reason to visit.”

“By the way, do you know what Eden’s Gate is?” The weird religious group is still on her mind, it seems to be all over Hope County. If they’ve been there for a long while, then surely Lloyd would know what it is and who they are. He raises an eyebrow and she can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“Can’t say that I do, why you ask Stray?” 

“Some religious group or something, they’re all over the county, even built a damn statue. Figured you might know what they are.”

“You mean, like the big deer statue near the Whitetail mountains?” 

“No, like a statue of a dude, like their founder or some shit, dude with a manbun.” She uses her hands to pull her hair back in a little bun-esque shape, as if the visual aid is necessary. 

“Yeah…that, I’ve never seen any of that, you sure, you ain’t losing it, Stray?” 

“Yes, I’m very sure I’m not losing it. They don’t seem like bad folks, the one I met, but they’re definitely strange.” 

“You’re not gonna go and try to find religion in Hope County, are you?” Caroline asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh fuck no.” 

“I was about to say, I haven’t gotten to set foot in a church in two years.” 

“I’m pretty sure she’d burst into flames.” 

Lloyd and Caroline share a smile, cracking up at Dahlia’s expense as she sticks a tongue out at them. 

“Hope they’re not the Jehovah Witness types, who go door to door,” Dahlia grumbles, the very thought making her stomach churn the stew inside of it. She’d rather blow her brains out then listen to someone preaching at her when she’s trying to relax.

“If they are, they’re about to meet their worst nightmare.” 

She can’t help but grin, the chatting continues for a while, just enjoying a cozy night in with the couple. Before, she knows it the food is gone and the night has gone on longer than usual. Lloyd and Caroline typically sleep early, rise early, while Dahlia is more of a night owl. 

But there’s an unspoken reluctance for the couple to turn in. Even as the moon hangs high in the sky, as Caroline and Lloyd yawn at the table. He even mentions playing a board game, cards, something. When she tells them to go to bed, Caroline nearly drifting off on his shoulder. She’s pulled into another hug, caring touches lingering as they finally drag themselves off to bed; tired voices slurring out goodnights. 

Maybe it’s egotistical, but the hesitance seems to hint at more. An understanding that this is likely among one of the last nights she’ll spend here with them and the desire to make it drag on as long as possible. To soak in every last moment of her being here. 

She knows she isn’t the greatest person to live with or even be around, that anyone should be happy to be rid of a leech like her. But, they’re far too kind for that. 

Dahlia takes a slow walk to the room she’s called her own for the past two years. She hasn’t changed anything in the time she’s been here, despite how much the couple has told her she could. Piles of clothes on the floor are the only thing that could be considered her personal touch. The small bed frame creaks as she sits down on the side, a second later the door is pushed open by Lucy, Lloyd and Caroline’s border collie. 

She lays a fluffy head on Dahlia’s knee and she buries her fingers into the fur, memories of the first time she held the dog. It was the first day she found herself here, hunkered down in their barn for shelter for the night, rain pouring down. She was scared that Lucy would bite her, aggressive towards a stranger. But just as kind as her owners, Lucy just shuffled herself closer to the drenched teenager, helping keep her warm through the stormy night. 

She’s changed so much in these past two years. 

Muscle tone and squish where was once a sack of bones, her fingers no longer able to slot in the spots between her ribs. Skin a healthier tan instead of the sickly pale it was that first night, ink now covering sections of that skin. Her first paychecks ending up in tattoos and clothes, taking control of her body and wardrobe in a way she’s never had before. For years her thick dark hair hung in a curtain down past her chest, that night and many nights before, it was tangled in thick dirty knots, matted to her skull in places. 

The very first day she was allowed to shower here, she grabbed a pair of scissors and hacked it off to the best of her abilities. Caroline later cleaned up the choppy job and now she’s found herself with a short bob of dark brown, nearly black hair. She’s really started to come into her own, feeling like her own person and becoming who she wants to be. 

She just wishes that was a person who could stay in Reinette. This is what has to happen, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t going to miss everything here. Lloyd and Caroline being the biggest thing, but Lucy, living on the farm, so much. It’s not like she’s never going to see them again. 

They’ll likely invite her back for visits, already making plans to visit her in Montana, but things are going to change. That’s unavoidable and undeniable. It’s scary, but most things worth doing are. 

Dahlia sees the sunrise before she finally manages to sleep in that bed for the last time. 

The next day, or more accurately after she’s gotten a few hours of sleep, everything is a frantic blur of activity as she tries to prepare for the move. It’s mostly clothes, a laptop, a portable game, and a few books. Nothing major or impressive, a tight pang in her chest as 

“Come on in.” 

The door creaks open and she looks over her shoulder to see Lloyd, something in his hand. His fingers clench and unclench, there's something in his hand, he shuffles a bit in the doorway.

"Something up?" She asks, throwing a few more shirts in her bag.

"Uh, I, well, what's this?" His eyes are drawn towards her open duffle bag, the same one she brought with her to Hope County, she's just been throwing her stuff in without much thought.

She raises an eyebrow as he starts to shift some stuff around in her bag, pulling out a heavy white book with that familiar cross like symbol. How did that get in there? Chills reverberate up her spine, goosebumps raising on her skin, it's starting to feel like this Eden's Gate shit is following her everywhere.

"That was at the hotel, I uh, must have thrown it in my bag by accident?" It's the only thing that makes sense.

"First day there and you're robbing the hotel?" 

"Shut up, I'll return it when I get back, but, uh, that's that religion I was talking about. Their book." 

He drops what he was holding, it looks like a little booklet, homemade. She grabs it as he starts flipping through the weird religious tome, she opens up the booklet. A photobook, the first one is of her, Lloyd, and Caroline at the fair, big puffy bags of cotton candy in her hand. Second one her holding an alligator and grinning, they drug her out to an alligator ranch one day, knowing how much she loves animals. Pictures from the beach trip they took her on, photos of her and Lucy. A photo from her first day at the station with everyone crowded around her.

"Book of Joseph...god that's already creepy." 

"Huh," nostalgia interrupted she peers over at the book, seeing a portrait of a guy, “that's him!" "What?"

"That's the guy who had the fuckin' statue of him, their founder or whatever."

"Who the hell wants his face hanging over 'em? Seems like a total creep." 

“I don't know, he looks like Norman Bates there." She grimaces, the way he's glowering is entirely too reminiscent of the famous mother loving killer's signature look.

“Don't get it, I uh, hey, why are you looking at that?" He asks, peering down at the booklet in her hand. 

"It's mine, I'm allowed to look at it." 

"Who the hell said it's yours?" 

"So, you weren't giving this to me as a gift, you just made it for fun?" 

"Caroline made it and ya know, something to remember us by and..." His blue eyes blurring with tears. 

"I'm moving states, not going to war, Jesus Christ." 

"You're leaving, I'm gonna miss you." 

“No one is dying, stop, oh my god, stop crying you baby." She knocks her fist into his shoulder, no force or animosity behind it. 

“I haven't cried this much since Maya left for college," he tells her, talking about his youngest adopted daughter, who had left the home just a year or so before Dahlia showed up in their barn. The couple barely got a year of an empty nest before she barged in.

“Are you done?” She asks him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for the new fresh onslaught of tears to poor out. 

“Yeah, yeah, by the way everyone down at the station wants to see you before you head out.”

“Why?” 

“I don’t fucking know, maybe it’s ‘cause you’re leaving and they like you, some a little too much, as far as I’m concerned. “

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, my sweet naïve child,” Lloyd dramatically cups a hand on the back of her head and pulls in for a hug, “whoever was supposed to teach ya about the birds and the bees, really fucked up, didn’t they?” 

“Shut up!” She groans, pushing him away, she’s not naïve. He just talks like a weirdo, she’s finally got her stuff all packed up, so she follows Lloyd out of the room. 

Caroline is in the kitchen and has been all day, according to Lloyd she’s been cooking up a storm for the past couple days, ever since Dahlia first left for her interview. 

“You coming down to the station with us?” 

“Uh, I’ll meet you down there later.” 

“Alrighty then.” 

Dahlia’s heart sinks, a pang there as she sets up her luggage and bags to be tried down to her motorcycle, she plans on getting on the road right after this little meeting. She knows it’s silly, but she was hoping Caroline would go with them. It will be the last they see of each other for a long while, she doesn’t want Lloyd’s sobbing, but she’d like at least a little more…fanfare. But, Caroline seems fairly nonchalant. 

“You ready to get going?” 

“Yeah.” 

Lloyd hops in his pickup truck, firing it up and driving into town with Dahlia riding her bike after him. 

There’s an extra weight to her sigh as she parks in front of the little police station, the one she’s been reporting to every day for the past two year and this the last time she’ll visit. Lloyd doesn’t even bother to wait around for her as she stares at the building, soaking it in for the last time before she finally trails in behind him. 

“Surprise!” A chorus of voices cheer out as she steps into the modest station, Micah and Chance two officers blowing on little party kazoos afterwards. 

“What the fuck?” 

“You didn’t think we could let you go without throwing you a party, did you?” Alexis tells her, squeezing Dahlia’s shoulder. 

Alexis has the most experience here after Lloyd and if he’d bother to retire before the station goes out, she’d be next in line. Micah and Chance are the resident dumbass officers, but they’re entertaining if nothing else. 

There’s a banner across the station office, Goodbye Stray. A sheet cake saying Good Luck on a table and Chance is throwing around confetti like a weird shredded paper fairy. 

“You guys are so dumb.” 

“We’re trying to be nice, brat,” Chance tells her, sprinkling confetti directly in her hair. 

“Come on, I’ll cut you a piece of cake before he covers it in paper,” Micah offers. 

Once the initial yell and Chance has run out of confetti, the party winds down into something more casual. Dahlia cramming cake in her mouth, with her feet propped up in Micah’s lap as they talk about everything. There’s a few other cops in the station, but most are on patrol and couldn’t make it. But Alexis, Micah, and Chance are by far the ones apart from Lloyd that she’s grown the closest too. 

Which makes it all the more depressing that the station is slowly dying out. Each of them has already started building their list of places to apply to once the inevitable happens. 

“I’m gonna miss you assholes,” Dahlia brings herself to say, after a moment. 

“Finally, she admits it,” Lloyd yells out excitedly. 

“Shut up.” 

“You’re gonna make some great friends over in Hope County.” 

“No one’s gonna be better than us, though.” 

“Shut up, Chance.” 

Dahlia can’t help but laugh at Alexis and Chance’s interaction, she really is going to miss these dumbasses. She doesn’t make friends easy, so parting with them and getting new ones is just that much more aggravating. Pratt was a dick and Hudson does weird things to her, how could she become friends with them? She doesn’t want to go to work everyday and either hate or be nauseous around her coworkers. 

“My friend Earl will keep an eye on her.” 

“Make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid you mean,” Alexis teases and heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks. Why does everyone think she’s stupid, why does Alexis have to think she’s stupid?

“You like it up in Montana?” Micah asks after a beat of silence. 

“I do, it’s colder up there which sucks, but it’s beautiful. Whitehorse is nice, I’ve met some friendly people,” she thinks of the couple with Boomer and the people of the trailer park. 

“I’m glad then.” 

“Watch out or Micah’s gonna be throwin’ in an application there just to follow you,” Lloyd says, grinning. 

“Would you stop?! I just wanted to make sure, she was going to be happy.” 

“Sure, you were.” 

They talk about anything and everything, Dahlia is the first one to leave, but all of them have looked into where they want to be post-Reinette. Alexis is looking into big cities, lots of work, showing just how talented she is. Chance isn’t going far, a county or two over at most. Micah still isn’t sure, but he’s thinking of leaving the state. 

The night drifts on, until the cake is gone, easily two-thirds of it ending up in the void Dahlia calls a stomach. Outside the sky has become a wash of oranges, pinks, and purple as the sun sets. It’s time to get going. 

“I gotta get on the road, if I have any chance of getting there with enough time to settle in.” 

Dahlia reluctantly stands from her chair, the time’s come. The last goodbye, for now at least, she hopes that they’ll stay in some form of contact after this. Alexis is the first to pull her into a hug and Dahlia freezes a bit, taken aback. 

“You’re gonna do great things out there.” 

Dahlia’s heart pangs and she squeezes Alexis back, hoping the strength of her hold can communicate how much those words mean to her. After a moment, they separate. Chance and Micah looking at her now. 

“Don’t think this gets you out of your promise, twenty-first birthday, you’re letting me take you out and get you piss faced drunk,” Chance tells her, grinning at his own stupid ideas. 

“If you wanna drive out to Montana just to see me drunk, that’s on you.”

“Don’t underestimate my stubbornness.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“Just so you know, if you need anything, all you have to do is call and ask,” Micah tells her, squeezing her shoulder, but she can tell he’s holding back. 

“You can hug me, if you want.” 

And then his arms are around her, hugging her tight to his body. She squeezes him right back. A few moments pass, before they finally pull apart. 

“Well now I want a hug,” Chance says, upon the realization he’s the only who hasn’t gotten one. 

“Come here then, dumbass.” 

And then they’re hugging, Chance going the extra mile to pull her up off the ground. Another beat of just enjoying the warmth of someone who for some reason cares about her. She’ll never understand why. Why any of these people opened their hearts to her, but they did, and she’ll always be thankful for it. 

Lloyd walks her out once Chance has finally freed her, the sun sinking lower in the sky, she buries her hands in her pockets. Her throat is tight, it’s getting closer and closer to the time to leave. 

“You sure, you can’t just stay one more night here?” 

“It takes over a day just to get there.” 

“But uhhh,” Lloyd is nervously looking around as he stutters, like he’s trying to stall. 

“You alright?” 

“Well….um, it’s just…finally!” Lloyd yells as they hear the rumble of an engine coming in, Caroline’s car pulling into the parking lot. 

“Caroline?” 

“Thank god, I managed to catch you.” The older woman gets out of her car, tucking a short strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, she opens the passenger side and is rummaging for something. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Here, we go.” Caroline emerges from her passenger seat with a towering pile of Tupperware, all filled with various meals. 

“What the hell is this?” 

“You can’t cook, how the hell else are you supposed to eat up in Montana,” Caroline says, shoving the containers into Dahlia’s arms. 

“There’s restaurants, microwave meals, I have options.” 

“I’m not letting you eat garbage the whole time you’re there, this should at least get you through the first couple months.” 

“I, I don’t have room for six-hundred plastic containers, I drive a motorcycle.” 

“Eh, I’m sure you can fit ‘em into the under-seat compartment,” Lloyd says, already lifting the seat on Dahlia’s motorcycle and taking containers from her arms to force inside. 

Dahlia’s laughing by the time he’s forced the last of them inside, looks like she was proven wrong. 

“So, I’m just gonna be sitting on three months’ worth of meals all the way to Montana.” 

“Pretty sure that’s more like a week’s worth for you, but it’s better than nothing.” 

Dahlia smiles and chews her lip, not sure what to say. Emotion and sentimentality rising up in her. She feels like she has so much to say, every word cobbling together to catch in her throat. But she can’t just let it go, even if she has to force herself to dislodge a single of those words, she has to do it. 

“I…,” that’s a start, technically, “I, really, really, really, really don’t deserve you guys. Th-there’s not enough reallys in the world, but I’m serious, I-”

“Stray, you deserve all the good that’s comes your way, hell you deserve a lot more of it.” 

“I really don’t, I, I owe you guys so much and I know I can’t ever repay you for everything. But, I, I at least want you to know just how much it all means to me. If it wasn’t for you guys, I’d, be rotting in a gutter somewhere, I mean.” 

“Hey, hey,” she’s being pulled into Lloyd’s chest before she knows it, hugged tight against his chest, when did she start crying?

Her face feels like it’s on fire and her head is throbbing. After a moment, Lloyd pulls away. He places a hand on her shoulder and the other cups her jaw, forcing her to look at him through her tear-filled eyes. All her yelling at him to keep it together, don’t be a crybaby. And she’s the one falling apart. 

“You don’t owe us anything. We did our best to do right by you, because that’s what you deserve. Okay, you deserve a home and a family and people who love you.”

“Uhhh, agree to disagree…?” What the hell is her voice doing? It’s so broken and cracked, everything she says dragging out of her throat. 

“No disagreeing,” Caroline chimes in, her eyes soft and motherly. 

“We just want you to be happy, you deserve it.” 

“You think you can do that for us? Just be happy and you’ll more than pay back anything you think you owe us.” 

“I’ll try, I guess,” she murmurs, wiping tears from her eyes. 

“Good girl,” Caroline says, reaching out to ruffle Dahlia’s hair. The young girl laughs through her tears, pull Lloyd in for another hug before forcing one on Caroline. 

Dahlia wipes away the last of her tears. 

“Uh, sorry about that.” 

“No apologies, call as soon as you get there. We’ll try to come out and visit just as soon as we can.” 

“This ain’t goodbye forever, Stray, we’ll see you again before you know it.”

A bright silver moon hangs in the sky by the time she brings herself to part with them for the last time, climbing onto her motorcycle. 

Two mornings later and she’s pulling into the Moonflower Trailer Park, the sun rising overhead. A smile stretches across her lips as she pulls in, a few people already milling about in the early morning. She notices Ruth, helping ease her kid down the little slide in the miniature playground that’s at the center of the trailer park. The woman waves at her and Dahlia returns the gesture as she parks near her trailer. 

She pulls off her helmet and thanks for a moment, locking up and keeping her motorcycle safe will be difficult with this set up. Moving it into her trailer would be an option, but it’s be a pain the ass with moving it every day. There’s a decent chunk of land behind where her trailer sits, not enough for another to move in there, but enough to mark a pseudo backyard. 

Maybe she can build a shed or something? She’ll have to double check on the rules and what’s allowed. 

For now, Dahlia busies herself with moving her things into the trailer. She basically tosses her bags and luggage in, not bothering to properly unpack things. The biggest thing is moving Caroline’s meal into the fridge and freezer. Once everything is where it needs to be, she grabs a shower and changes her clothes. She’ll have to do some laundry when she gets a chance. 

Dahlia stretches her muscles as she steps back out of her trailer, the activity has picked up somewhat, more people milling about and having conversations about who knows what. She makes a mental list of the things she has to get done; checking about a shed, getting some groceries in, doing her laundry and probably some stuff she hasn’t even thought about yet.

She makes a beeline for the registration building, peering inside and seeing a man talking to Darcy. Taking her chances of a long wait; she steps inside and loiters behind the stranger. Darcy’s bright blues land on Dahlia and the man follows the gaze, it seems like everyone in the county has a set of pretty light eyes. All greens and blues from what she’s seen. The receptionist at the hotel, both deputies and Whitehorse, the dispatcher at the station, Mary May, Darcy, and even Ruth. She’s pretty sure the only other pair of brown eyes she’s seen since she’s been here was the guy who nearly pulled a gun on her.

“You need something, hon?”

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re fine, darlin’, we were just shooting the shit.” Pet names and light eyes seem to both be trends here.

“I was just wondering if I could build a shed behind my trailer, to keep my motorcycle locked up.”

“As long as you aren’t blocking anyone or anything, go for it.”

Dahlia gives a little thumbs up in acknowledgement and starts to make a bee line back out, time to find out where the hell to get supplies for a shed. The man starts to follow her out, quickly catching up to her as she’s making her way back to her trailer.

“If you’re looking to build something, there’s a nice hardware and carpentry store, they give you all the supplies and instructions. You just gotta put it together,” he finishes up as they reach her motorcycle.

“Sounds good, you got a number for them?”

“Yeah, I,” he looks at her motorcycle, “you got a way to haul it?”

“Nah, I’d have to rent a truck.”

“I got a pickup, if you order it, I can pick it up for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m down there most days anyway, I’m Liam by the way.”

“I-”

“Nice bike,” another voice yells out, a guy with scraggly hair looking at Dahlia’s motorcycle, “it yours?”

“Hey, Clyde,” Liam greets him.

“Yeah, 2009 Yamaha FZ1; guy’s kid totaled it and I nearly rebuilt it from scratch.” She tells him, smiling at the memory of finding the wrecked bike in Lloyd’s garage.

The three talk for some time about the specs of her motorcycle and talking about the place Liam recommended. He gives her the number and after some relenting agrees to be paid for at least the gas money. After some time and Clyde rambling about the vintage motorcycle he had as a teenager, she manages to tear herself away from the conversation to make the call. She reserves the materials and Liam is planning on heading that way shortly.

That taken care of for now, she decides to get her laundry taken care of. She grabs her bag of dirty laundry out of her trailer and makes a beeline for the laundry half building. It’s a strange roofed in area with no doors. How they manage to maintain the machine is beyond her. Seems like a nightmare when bad weather hits.

She rattles out her coins and gets what she needs, cooking may evade her but she at the very least knows how to do her own laundry. Dahlia bends over to start shoving her clothes in, she’s struggling to find her other sock when she gets the sense she’s being watched, someone’s eyes trained on her backside. She tucks a lock of hair back behind her ear as she stands back up and turns around.

“Uh, ah…” The guy awkwardly stumbles back, not really forming any words as he avoids her eyes. He’s taller than her; as are most people. Other than children, she hasn’t found a single person in Hope County shorter than her. 

He scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck, why was he looking at her? 

"There something on my shorts?" She brushes a hand down the denim, searching for something. It wouldn't be the first time she's managed to sit in something gross. 

"Uh, shit, sorry I'm just a man, I can't help it."

"Okay…" That didn't really answer her question. Weird guy, she decides and focuses on going back to her laundry. 

"No harassing the new girl, Boshaw." Ruth comments as she walks in, laundry basket on her hip. 

“I wasn’t doing nothing.” He tries to defend himself and Dahlia is left even more confused.

“Don’t let him bug you, he doesn’t even live here. Boshaws are good for nothing but a party,” Ruth tells her, clapping a hand on Dahlia’s back. She just shakes her head, not worth dealing with.

By the time Dahlia finishes up her laundry the sound of a backfiring truck engine is making its way back into the trailer park. Liam with a truck bed filled with hardwood and all the stuff she needs for her shed.

“Me and Clyde will help you put it together, if you want.” Liam offers, him and Clyde already helping her unload the materials. 

“I mean it’d go quicker, if I had more hands,” Dahlia says, she doesn’t need the help necessarily and doesn’t want to be a bother, but she’d appreciate it anyway. 

“Where exactly do you want it?” 

“Just right back behind my trailer, let’s see.” 

The three of them move the supplies to where she needs the shed built, Dahlia’s taking a glance at the building instructions and when she looks back up, Liam and Clyde have managed to grab a radio and a pack of beer. It’s not even noon. 

“Want one?” Clyde offers her a can. 

“Nah, I’m under 21.”

“Pfff, never stopped anyone.” He shrugs before downing the can himself. Maybe as a cop she should give a shit about that statement, but the drinking age is dumb. Even if she feels obligated to listen to it due to her job, she can admit it’s stupid. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, sweetheart, where are you from?” 

“Louisiana.” 

“The hell you doing out here?”

“Moved for work, you two Hope County natives?” 

“Born and raised, wouldn’t trade it for the world.” 

“You guy’s got any recommendations of shit to do here?” 

She happily listens to them ramble about lady’s night at The Spread Eagle, O’Hara’s Haunted House being the best place for a scare, hiking trails in the Whitetail Mountains, the best fishing spots, the 8-bit Pizza Bar’s games, and raving about the burgers at The Grill Steak. The entire time they’re all working, laughing, and the pair of them throwing back beers. 

Sweat is coating Dahlia’s skin by the time they finish, and it feels nice to be able to stand back to look at what’s been accomplished. Put together with hard work and the help of her new neighbors.

“Hell yeah, we got that knocked out in no time,” Clyde boasts, holding his hand out for a high five that she gives right away.

“Here,” Liam tosses her the padlock he picked up for it, all packaged with it’s little key. She pushes her bike inside, already thinking of adding hooks and shelves, for her helmet and other odds and ends. She can really make something with it. She’s more excited to put work into her motorcycle’s home than her own trailer. Go figure.

She locks it up and hooks the key on her keychain. One more thing taken care of.

“I really appreciate it, you guys didn’t have to do this. Uh, I can’t cook for shit, but if you want I can buy you l-”

Engine revving again, better shape than Liam’s backfiring pickup, an old green one comes pulling into the trailer park. Dahlia’s eyes widen in surprise when she realizes who’s at the wheel, Sheriff Whitehorse. The tension of the trailer park draws tight, no more signs of the laughing easy going nature she was getting comfortable in. Liam, Clyde, and every trailer park resident as far as Dahlia can see are now staring daggers at the Sheriff.

No sign of peturbment, Whitehorse parks and hops out of the front seat of his truck, right next to Dahlia and her two new friends. He stops to grab something from the passenger side.

“The hell are you doing here?!” Clyde asks low and threatening.

“Came to see my new Junior Deputy, figured it’d be good for you to get your uniforms,” Whitehorse tells her, green deputy shirts in hand.

“Thanks, Sheriff.” She takes the uniforms from his hand, feeling those glares that were on Whitehorse being turned towards her.

“You...settling in alright, Rook?”

“Uh, yeah, I think…” She thought she was. But, now she has her doubts.

“That’s good, just wanted to check in on you.”

“I appreciate it, I was just about to buy them lunch, if you w-”

“We’re good,” Liam says, definitely with a gruff sound to his voice.

“Are you s-”

Liam and Clyde are already storming away, smiles and laughter drained from their faces and replaced with angry tension. What did she do? Why are they mad? She clenches her jaw and chews her bottom lip as she watches what she thought were her new friends walk off.

“Come on, I’ll buy you lunch, Rook.” Whitehorse claps a large hand on her shoulder, warm and comforting during her confusion. He gently turns her towards the passenger side of his truck, and she climbs in, fiddling with the uniforms in her lap; the Hope County Sheriff’s Department patch rough against her fingers.

The engine revs to life as Whitehorse climbs in, the radio humming out a country song. She hates not at least knowing what she did wrong. 

“Not gonna lie, when I heard you moved into The Moonflower, I got worried about ya Rook.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hmm, it’s where a lot of the more...suspicious citizens of Hope County live. They don’t have a lot of respect for cops, none actually. More likely to call you a pig than eat lunch with you. Not bad people, but they don’t have any love for law enforcement.”

“So...I’m a cop who just moved into a trailer park of criminals is what you're telling me.”

“Basically.”

“And thanks to you, they all for sure know I’m a cop now.”

“Would have found out when you had to arrest one of ‘em, this seemed a bit better.”

It’s stupid to be upset, she knows that it’s stupid to be upset about losing people she’s known all of five hours. But it felt nice to be welcomed with such open arms and to know that’s already gone to shit. She focuses on her uniforms in her lap because it’s easier than dealing with the lump in her throat and the churn of her stomach. No name tag or badge on her uniforms.

“Where’s my name tag and badge?”

“We’re a small operation, Rook. We’re not investing in patches and a badge until we know you’re staying in for the long haul.” 

“I also found out about your junior deputy crap, I’m not a kid in high school.” 

“Not far off from it.”

He’s looking off across the road to make sure it’s safe to turn, so she uses the moment of him looking away to stick her tongue out at him. Does it make her look any more mature? No. Does she care? No. 

“Caught that, Rookie.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Sounds fake.” 

They pull into the parking lot of Aubrey’s Diner, a big restaurant with a pink roof. Whitehorse brings the truck into park, Dahlia tucks the uniforms into the backseat before hopping out of the truck. The sheriff squeezes her shoulder as they walk into the restaurant, as much as he likes teasing her, he seems keen on trying to comfort her. Maybe he just feels sorry for her and her shitty luck. 

“Hey, my name is Cassie, I’ll be your waitress today. Can you take a seat, right over here.” A young girl, probably around Dahlia’s age with long black hair helps show them to a booth. Whitehorse takes his hat off as he sits down. 

“Can I get you two anything to drink?” The waitress hands them menus, there’s a mess of bruises across her forearm. Mixes of blues, purples, and some more faded greens. The indents of fingerprints on her skin. 

“A black coffee, please.” 

“Uh, whatever soda you have is fine, what happened to your arm?” 

The girl’s eyes go wide, reminiscent of a deer in the headlights. She gives an awkward tight smile and pushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. 

“Oh, I was just horsing around with my four wheeler, nothing major. I’ll go get your drinks, right away.” 

“You worry about everyone, don’t you?” 

“You don’t get bruises like that from a four-wheeler.” 

“You gonna do something about it?” 

“Sure as shit gonna try,” she manages to catch the smile on Whitehorse’s face before she looks at the menu, “now, if you’re paying, what’s the limit?” 

“Get whatever you want.” 

“Do you actually mean that? Or are you trying to be nice, ‘cause I can and will eat you out of house and home if you let me.” 

He laughs a little; a dry chuckle, like the idea of her being able to eat that much is ridiculous. She should try to go somewhat easy on him, first impressions or something. She’ll settle on a stack of pancakes and a double burger and fries. 

There are a few people in the diner and when Cassie returns, Dahlia decides now isn’t the time. She doesn’t want to embarrass or make her uncomfortable. Even she has a smidge more tact than that. Cassie takes their orders and Dahlia feels Whitehorse staring at her. 

“You gonna gorge yourself to make a point?” 

“Pfff, this ain’t nothing to me,” Dahlia tells him with a shrug, drinking her soda, an awkward beat of silence following. 

“You know, it you may not have picked a great place to settle in, but I think you’re gonna like it here, Rook.”

“I’m hoping.” 

“A lot of people aren’t gonna like you. Aren’t gonna like your job, or what you have to do. You can’t let it get you down. The people here are good, most of ‘em will take you in with open arms.” 

“They literally turned their backs on me, like physically looked at me in disgust and turned around,” Cassie brings their food back out, “thanks.” 

“You know why I took a chance on you?” 

“’Cause of the robbery thing?’ She asks as she begins dumping syrup on her peach pancakes before shoving a forkful in her mouth. 

“I was gonna give you the probie position before that.” 

“What!?” She slurs out around the food in her mouth. 

“Well, yeah,” his blue eyes are soft, and he reminds her of Lloyd more than he ever has before, “you’re good people, Rook. And I’m not gonna be the only person who sees that. Anyone’d be damn lucky to have you in their corner.” 

She swallows her mouthful of food, chewing the inside of her cheek as she weighs his words in her mind. Her heart is lighter, it’s nice knowing her new boss is rooting for her, sees something in her that’s worth seeing. 

“That, uh, it means a lot,” this is too serious, “so, if you already knew you were gonna give me a shot before the interview ended, why the fuck did you wait until after to tell me?” 

“Wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t make you sweat at least a little.” 

“I thought I fucked it all up!” 

“Can’t be a cop if you don’t have a good poker face.” 

“Its too good, I hate it.” 

“Well, if you hate that, you’re gonna really hate this.”

“...and what would ‘this’ be?” 

“You’ll be with Pratt on patrol.”

“What!?” She groans out, thinking about that smug asshole’s face.

“Pratt wasn’t too excited either, but I’m sure you two will manage.” 

“Why can’t I work with Hudson?” Dahlia asks, though her voice catches strangely when she thinks about her. Heat prickling up under her skin. Whitehorse sighs as he leans back in the booth. 

“I don’t want this to sound bad. You and Hudson are both perfectly capable officers. But I don’t like having two women officers partnered. I know it’s not right, but around here; perps will think they can push you around ‘cause you’re a woman. They’ll assume you’re soft. It’s not right, but it happens. I don’t want to put you in a bad situation right out of the gate, working with Pratt will make it easier on you.” 

“That’s garbage, you may mean well, but it’s garbage.”

“There’s another reason too,” Whitehorse tells her with lopsided grin. 

“And what’s that?”

“Rook, you could barely even talk to Hudson. I partner you with her and you’ll be a disaster.”

“What are you talking about? I talked to Hudson just fine.” 

“You were bright red and stuttering; blind man could see your little crush.” 

“Crush…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, like...feelings… That’s what everyone has been trying to say. 

“Jesus criminy, that’s a whole new can of worms. You know what a crush is?” 

“Yes, I know what a crush is, I just...never had one...I don’t think.” 

“You feel like you’re burning up and gonna puke when you see her?” 

“Maybe…”

“Like your heart is gonna explode out of your chest.” 

“Uhhhh…”

“That’s a crush, Rook.” 

She doesn’t even know Hudson, how the hell can she have a crush on her? You can’t have feelings for someone you don’t hardly know. She’s pretty though. Maybe it’s just physical attraction? Has she ever been even physically attracted to someone before?

“My head hurts.” 

“I’m starting to think you’re even worse than taking on a high school kid.” 

“Look, I don’t mess with that crap okay, I’ve never...ugh, can we move on?” 

They’ve finished their food before they know it, Whitehorse just shaking his head at how easily she managed to gobble up all of the food she got. Dahlia grabs a napkin, doing her best to write down her phone number with it being actually legible. Her hand aches from the effort but it’s easy to read. 

Cassie gives the bill and Whitehorse leaves a tip for her, once the young waitress starts to walk away, Dahlia excuses herself to go smoke. Though, she suspects the sheriff knows her actual intentions. 

“Hey, Cassie,” Dahlia calls out and stops the waitress when she gets to a relatively secluded portion of the restaurant. 

“Is there something else you need?” 

“How old are you?” 

“Uhh, 18, why?” 

Not much younger, but she’s an adult, even a year younger this conversation would be a lot different. 

“I can’t force or do much, unless you ask for it. But, I’m the new deputy with the station. I’m not saying for sure something is wrong, but if you need help, I want you to give me a call, alright?” 

‘Um...thanks…” The girl awkwardly accepts the napkin before darting away and Dahlia clenches her jaw, knowing the chances of that call ever coming are slim. But at least she’s made an effort and if nothing else Cassie knows she has options. More than anyone ever did for her. 

Maybe, she’ll go ahead and step outside for a smoke anyway. 

She steps out and finds herself at the side of the building, where she lights up her cigarette. Dahlia fiddles with the edge of her thigh high socks as she takes a deep drag. She exhales a heavy cloud of smoke that drifts up through the sky, the afternoon sun rays beating down on her. 

Among the trees something moves, a rustling of grass and brush followed by footsteps. Dahlia’s heart sinks when she sees her emerge. The girl from the hotel, the siren is walking down a grassy pathway. Her dress is a little different, no less white or lacy, but the sleeves are shorter and it comes off her shoulders, a white flower adorning her sandy colored hair. There’s a light grace to the way she walks, as if she’s on her own personal cloud floating along. She holds a book close to her chest. 

Why is she seeing her again? Are her eyes playing tricks on her again?

Dahlia is moving without another thought, the siren’s call working it’s magic to draw her in again. 

She expects the girl to vanish again, to fade into mist the second Dahlia gets too close, just as she had done time and time again that night. The second she grabs the woman’s shoulder, she’ll be gone. If the junior deputy even gets that close without the spectre fading away. 

The heat of real flesh under her hand sends her spiraling back to reality. The girl jolting and staring at Dahlia with wide green eyes, scared and surprised at the grasp of a stranger. An expression unlike any seen in Dahlia’s hallucinations. She’s human, flesh and real, an actual person standing before her whom Dahlia just grabbed like a maniac. The panicky yells of others flood her ears. There are other people, a group of five or so people glaring daggers at Dahlia. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” One of them yells, obviously ready to fight and Dahlia rips her hand off of the girl like she’s been scalded. What is she doing? 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so so sorry,” Dahlia gushes out a mess of apologies, “I, uh, thought I knew you from somewhere. I’m sorry, I just, sorry.” 

“No, no need for sorries,” she’s speaking actual words for the first time, voice soft and melodic as she gently brings Dahlia’s hand into her own to intertwine their fingers, “you’re here for a reason, what’s your name?” 

“Oh, uh, I-” 

“Rookie, you ready to head out?” Whitehorse yells out from the diner, eyes narrowing a bit when he sees Dahlia with the strange woman. 

“I gotta get going, again, I’m sorry, I, bye.” Dahlia’s off like a shot, ripping her hand from the woman’s and running back towards Whitehorse; desperate to escape the awkwardness. 

She still feels those green eyes watching her as she jumps up into Whitehorse’s pickup. Dahlia settles into the passenger seat with a residual chill in her spine, she can’t put into words but something about this girl and the whole thing feels strange. The engine revs to life and the radio starts to play. 

“You know that girl, Rook?”

“I thought I recognized her but, no.” 

“You probably shouldn’t buddy up too close to the Seeds.”

“Why’s that?” 

“They’re not too dangerous, they run a little religious group around the county, but they keep finding themselves in trouble lately it seems.” 

“Reli- are they those Eve, Ed-” 

“Project at Eden’s Gate, everyone calls ‘em peggies. They’re usually pretty harmless, but they always seem to be getting into hot water with the locals. Two of ‘em were the ones robbing The Spread Eagle that day you interviewed.” 

“That doesn’t sound too harmless to me.” 

“Stuff like that is rare, you just managed to land here at the right time.” 

“Eh, I just know that I kept seeing random crap of theirs, from pamphlets to a book, and apparently that big freaking statue.” She glares at where she sees it over the horizon, the giant hunk of useless cement. 

“Yeah, Joseph Seed is a real piece of work.” 

“Wait, like, you’ve met him?” 

“He’s had some run ins with us.” 

“He’s like a currently living human being?” 

“Last time I checked.” 

“I, what the fuck, I thought he was like their old founder who died or something. You know from like the 1800’s or something. How far up your own ass do you have to be to have people build a statue of you? Ugh.” 

Whitehorse laughs at her discomfort; she was here thinking he must have been some old founder who died a hundred years ago and it’s just some creepy man bun guy probably off somewhere being weird right now. 

“You in a hurry to get home?” The sheriff asks her. 

“Not particularly.” She needs to get groceries and stuff, but she has Caroline’s made up meals and she has water to her trailer, so she can make do and go shopping tomorrow. 

“We’ll take the scenic route then, show you around.” 

Whitehorse drives her around the Henbane river area, pointing out different places and structures that seem worth noting. The Dire Wolf Basin, Lydia’s Cave, Mastodon Geothermal Park, Dead Man’s Mill, and every place that has a name it seems. He prattles on something about each place, where they get their names, history. And she can feel her eyelids getting heavier with every syllable. They pass by the Drubman Marina, a dock and buildings, a pink helicopter landed there and boats on the sparkling clear water. The sun is starting to sink down and turn the sky into a mess of oranges and purples. His low accented voice rambles on about someone who owns it, divorce, real estate; it’s all a blur as she’s leaning against the door and her eyes finally shut completely. 

“Rook, wake up,” Whitehorse is calling out and gently shaking her awake. She blinks a few times, clearing the sleep from her eyes. A glance at the radio clock tells her about two hours has passed. They’re parked back in front of the trailer park. He was talking and she fell asleep; not the greatest first impression to have on her boss the day before she starts working.

He doesn’t seem upset though, just smiling and laughing at her.

“You know, I was trying to help get your mind off shit, didn’t mean to do by boring you, but whatever works, I guess.”

“Sorry, I, uh guess, I was still tired from traveling, that’s a lie, I don’t know why I’m trying to lie. I just got bored and passed out.”

Whitehorse chuckles; at least he seems to find her amusing, that might help keep her around for a while.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Rookie, try to take it easy tonight,” she starts to unbuckle her seat belt, “and don’t forget your uniforms.”

“Thanks.” She grabs her uniform shirts out of the backseat and clambers out of the rusted green pickup.

Dahlia hears the trailer park before she steps past the sign. Whoops and hollers, the sound of a radio blasting. Behind her she hears Whitehorse’s truck pulling away and she feels alone again. No matter what it seems like she can’t seem to ever escape that.

In the center of the trailer park, near the playground area is a bonfire. Faces of people she’s seen in her short time here and ones she hasn’t met yet mingle around, laughing, hollering, and downing beers. The smell of food cooking over grills hits her nose, her never filled stomach growling despite herself. No one has noticed her yet. Caught up in the festivities. She adjusts the grip on her uniforms and kicks the toe of her boot into the dirt, she wants to be included. It’s childish, wanting so badly to just be invited. But she can’t help it. She doesn’t want to believe that people she seemed to fit in well with would throw her away because she’s a cop.

“You got a problem?” Clyde suddenly speaks up, noticing her through the party. His voice is low and his eyes narrowed, like he’s ready for a fight.

“Not particularly.” She shrugs.

“Then why don’t you go ahead and get out of here, Johnny Law.”

“I mean, I’ll go to my trailer…”

“Be better off if you just get out altogether,” Liam tells her.

“I paid to move in here like everyone else, you can’t kick me out.” Dahlia looks to Darcy, the only one here she sees that actually works for the trailer park and decided to rent to her. The girl chews her lip and avoids eye contact, running a hand through her short hair.

“I mean, yeah, as long as you pay you can stay, but I doubt you’ll be too happy here...You should, uh, try to find something else.”

“And the sooner the better, we don’t need fuckin’ narcs moving in on us.”

“I don’t work in narcotics.”

“Do I look like I give a damn what division you work for, a pig’s a pig!”

Dahlia clenches her jaw at Clyde’s yells, the way everyone around him is grinning, supporting him. This was one of the only options, besides an expensive apartment in Falls End or just waiting for the Silver Lake Trailer Park to have something available. She just rolls her eyes, trying not to betray the ache in her heart. 

“This conversation is pointless.” She shakes her head and heads towards her trailer.

“Can’t believe we helped out a fuckin’ cop,” Liam grumbles as she turns her back on the party.

Then something pelts the back of her head, the stench of beer coating her hair as it splashes out of the nearly empty can that’s bounced off her skull.

She bites her lip, she could be an asshole, technically this can be classified as battery. And a little angry gremlin in the back of her brain wants her to teach them a lesson as they laugh at her, cackling like hyenas. 

But it was just a can of beer, basically empty. She’s an adult. She doesn’t need to waste time or energy on this. At least that’s what she tells herself when she keeps her head down and makes her way to the trailer.

Her door does little to filter out the sound of the party. The music and excitement reverberates through the thin walls of her trailer.

> _**Young blood, come to start a riot.** _

> _**Don’t care what your old man say.** _

She tosses her uniforms on the couch, not really caring where they fall. The stench of beer is still sticking to her skin. She peels off her jacket and digs out her phone, syncing it to her speaker, might as well blast her own music in return.

> _**Young blood, heaven hate a sinner.** _

> _I felt a break in a sacred place where your hands don’t heal._

> _**But we gonna raise hell anyway.** _

> _These are the reasons you’re ruled by the things you feel._

The music mingles and mashes in awkward ways. The upbeat country rock and slow drag of indie music meshing into a cacophony of noise. Somewhere between a yell and a sing, she belts lyrics out, sometimes her music, sometimes theirs.

> _**Raise hell, yeah** _

> _Out of the deep waters and all their intricacies._

> _**Somebody gotta, gotta raise a little hell** _

> _This is the real face of all your enemies._

This isn’t unfamiliar. The ache of loneliness and feeling like she doesn’t belong. There are lots of reasons for it. No matter where she goes, there never seems to be a place for her. She can’t even blame them. Even if they’re open and welcoming, she knows that feeling will creep up again.

> _**Baby, drop them bones.** _

> _I felt you escape into empty space where my heart can’t feel_

> **Baby, sell that soul**

> _Down in that darkness, you met all the things you feared_

Lloyd and Caroline were the most welcoming people she’s ever encountered, yet that feeling still reared its ugly head. Those doubts of being a burden, a bother, that she’s intruding on their space. A leech of their time and energy.

The party rages on outside, everyone far happier without her around, as she lights a cigarette up in her trailer.

> _And I knew, I knew.._

> _**Baby, fare thee well** _

> _There was nothing I could do..._


	3. The Art of Haunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I’m late to posting this, though can you be late to posting something when you make your own schedule? Its time to finally see Dahlia at work and her getting to know her new partner as well as some of the citizens in Hope County. I also want to say, I've made an official statement on the inclusion of anti-cop dialogue and themes in this fic, because I think it's something important to say given the state of the world at the time of me publishing this. 
> 
> https://heartofsnark.tumblr.com/post/623472298092003328/a-little-psa-regarding-my-fc5-content
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Cursing, Anxiety Attacks, Ms Mable’s problem with Italians, Slut Shaming, Sexism (thanks, Hurk Sr.)

Dahlia huffs out a little breath of air as she looks at herself in the mirror. Trying to look professional and put together, she’s lightened up her eyeliner a little. But it’s the shirt that’s killing her. She doesn’t mind the dark army green and likes it as an overshirt but buttoning it up just feels too put together for her. Dahlia thinks of how she saw Hudson wearing hers, tucked in and half buttoned on, she starts to try it, but just the act of tucking her shirt in feels completely unnatural. **  
**

She settles for just leaving it open over a black tank top and rolling her sleeves up to her elbow. If Whitehorse has a problem with it, he’ll call her out on it. Her shirt doesn’t have any messages or graphics on it, which is something. If he knew her better, he’d know that’s reason enough to celebrate. Dahlia ties her hair back in a small ponytail, the most her short hair can manage, with strands still falling out. But, it’s a bit more out of her face.

A deep breath to ease her nerves.

She’s been a cop for around two years, jumped at the chance to join the Academy not long after Lloyd and Caroline took her in, but at the Reinette station she had Lloyd practically holding her hand every time she was unsure of something. Not to mention, there wasn’t much to do as a cop in Reinette. She probably spent the majority of those two years in the station pelting Chase with spitballs. If Hope County is minor league, Reinette was playing catch in the backyard.

Throwing on her leather jacket, she goes out to the shed and gets her bike out, throwing on her helmet before starting it up.

There’s a flutter of anxiety in her stomach as she walks into the station. A mixture of excitement and fear, she’s not sure which emotion is winning out at the moment.

“Good morning, Junior Deputy,” Nancy greets her with a smile as Dahlia hangs her jacket on a nearby hook. 

“Morning.”

“Earl wants to see you in the bullpen office, through that door right there.” 

In the open office with collections of desks, she sees a few random officers, and the two deputies from her interview. Dahlia’s heart picks up spend when Hudson looks over towards her, flashing a grin. 

“There’s the Rookie.” 

“About time, probie.” 

“Hey…” 

“Not for nothing, you might wanna fix your uniform before the sheriff sees.” 

“Stickler?” 

“Rookie!” The sharp bark of a yell rings out, Whitehorse coming out of his office and making Dahlia snap to attention, “what the hell, sort your uniform out, this is a police station, not high school.” 

“On it,” she responds, buttoning up the shirt to just beneath the neckline of her tank top. 

“Tuck it in too.” 

“Yes, sir,” she grumbles, following orders. Ironically, she feels more like she’s in high school now. Getting barked at about dress code violations. 

“With that settled,” Whitehorse knocks his knuckles against the only desk without anything on it, “this is gonna be your desk, feel free to settle into it when you get a chance. Come back to my office, we got some paperwork and details to take care of, then you’ll be out on patrol with Pratt.” 

Pratt grumbles something she can’t quite hear, and she rolls her eyes, following Whitehorse back into his office. There are a few forms he places before her and she gives her half assed signature on them. Then he starts rummaging through storage in his office, getting a belt out with holsters and pouches. Empty and then he starts to lay out what’s to fill those, each items she recognizes well from her job in Reinette. 

Handcuffs, standard steel and gleaming under the lights of the office. A baton, pepper spray, a walkie talkie style radio, a taser, a flashlight, and a black Glock 22 sidearm. 

“I’m sure you heard all of this back in Louisiana, but the weight of a loaded gun is a heavy one. It’s a lot of responsibility, it should only be used when absolutely necessary.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Alright then, gear up and get ready for patrol.” 

She nods and loops the utility belt, fastening the buckle then attaching each thing she needs, the weight of it all hanging around her waist as she goes back to the bullpen to meet with Pratt. 

She can’t help but let out a huffy sigh when she sees Pratt standing beside his desk and drinking coffee, chatting with Hudson. Her eyes instinctively drawn to the female deputy, remembering that conversation she had with Whitehorse. A crush. Her heart hurts. How can she have a crush, she knows nothing about Hudson, are they meant to be this superficial? Hudson is beautiful; no one with functioning eyes could debate that fact. Long dark hair and olive-green eyes, there’s a tattoo on her forearm that Dahlia never noticed before. Some sort of eagle with an American flag, maybe she has military in her family? Not that this fact means anything to Dahlia, why would she care about that? 

“Looks like I’m stuck on babysitting duty.” Pratt’s voice cuts through her thoughts like ice water being splashed in her face. She flushes red, realizing how stupid she must have looked just gawking for a moment at a pretty girl. 

“If anyone’s stuck babysitting it’s gonna be Rook,” Hudson tells him, rolling her eyes and flashing another big smile at Dahlia. Everything about her is so warm and comforting. Crushes suck, she’s finally in control of her life and her body decides she can’t control it. Instead of responding or communicating like a functional human being, Dahlia scratches at the back of her neck and avoids eye contact. 

“Whatever, c’mon, probie I ain’t got all day.” 

Dahlia reluctantly follows after Pratt, out to one of the parked patrol cars. He climbs into the driver’s seat and she plops herself in the passenger side. Sheriff gone, she immediately starts to undo the buttons on her uniform shirt. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m not wearing my uniform like this, not if I don’t have to.”

“Well, you have to.”

“Whitehorse isn’t here.” She shrugs and untucks her shirt. 

“I have seniority over you, Rookie. If I say you need to have your uniform on properly, you have to.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“You need to respect your higher ups.” 

“You wanna lecture me about respect and my uniform, or do you wanna go do our jobs?” 

“Fine, but you better lose the attitude.” 

“I’ll get right on that.” She rolls her eyes, looking out the window of the patrol car as Pratt starts up the engine. This is going to be a less than fun probationary hire, hopefully it won’t be long until she’s able to patrol on her own. 

The morning rolls by slowly, no calls in or anything needing attention. Dahlia is comfortable in silence for the most part, content to just watch the environment as they drive around. Forcing conversation or small talk isn’t appealing. If she grows close and gets to know people, she’d rather it happen naturally than just desperately trying to fill silence. 

Pratt is less comfortable with silence, she learns quickly. As much as he talked crap about not wanting her to annoy him or be a problem, he’s far more concerned with getting her attention than she is his. 

“So, you came here from Louisiana?” 

“Mmhm.” 

“What made you wanna become a cop?’ 

“…”

She already passed her interview, she doesn’t want to spend her time rambling to someone else about her situation; he just wants to do her job. 

“Not much of a talker, huh?” 

“…”

It isn’t until around noon that something finally happens. It’s nothing major, a red ford driving through a stop sign. No crashes or accidents, but illegal, nonetheless. Pratt flicks on the lights and the siren, rushing after the traffic violator. The truck pulls off on the side of the road and Dahlia goes to unbuckle her seat belt. 

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, looking at her like she’s lost her damn mind. 

“Getting out to give this guy a ticket.” 

“You’re not going anywhere, you stay right there.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me, I don’t want you getting out of this car,” he tells her one more time as he steps out. She groans, it’s just a ticket, but at least it was something. It’d give her an excuse to stretch her legs. Does he seriously think she can’t handle writing a ticket? She glares as Pratt talks to the man and writes up the ticket, returning to the patrol car without any trouble. 

“I call the next ticket, at least.” 

“Doesn’t work like that.” 

“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that? You have to let me get out of the car at some point.”

“You’re gonna sit and learn by observing.” 

“Observing what?! You walking to a car? I know how to write tickets, that’s basic, you can at least let me do that much.” 

“Don’t ask questions, alright?” 

“I will ask any and every question that I damn well please.” 

Pratt scoffs at her before starting the car back up, the day continues much the same to Dahlia’s absolute chagrin. 

Someone speeds, she’s told to just stay in the car. Someone makes an illegal turn; she’s told to stay in the car. They’ve pulled over the fourth person of the day, someone they caught on their phone driving. Once again, Pratt tells her to sit still as he goes and takes care of it, coming back afterwards. 

“I swear to god if you don’t let me do something, I’m gonna scream.” 

“Don’t be a brat, there’s no need to send you out for traffic violations.” 

“It’s better than just sitting here, my legs are falling asleep.” 

“Deputy Pratt, Hale, this is dispatch,” Nancy’s voice drifts through the radio in the middle of the car. 

“Pratt responding.” 

“We have a call from Ms. Mable, Peaches got out again, you’re our nearest unit.” 

“Ugh, can that old b-,” he pauses for a moment and a grin comes across his face, looking over at Dahlia, “you know what, I think this is perfect for the probie’s first call. Tell her we’re headed that way.” 

“You sure that’s a great idea, Pratt?” 

“Already on our way, over.” 

“Peaches?” Dahlia asks as they start to head up to the northern part of the Henbane River area. 

“It’s Ms. Mable’s cat, she’s always escaping and gets into all kinds of trouble. The F.A.N.G center is the closest thing we have to animal control, but we don’t ask for their help unless absolutely necessary.” 

It makes sense, she guesses, not much is needed to tame a cat. 

“If it means I can get out of the car, I’ll take it.” 

She yawns and leans back in her seat as Pratt starts to take her up a mountain slope, signs for Peaches Taxidermy catching her eye. There are two buildings when they park as well as a large caged in enclosure, with a box. Seems like a lot of space for a cat, maybe she has big dogs as well, though the enclosure appears empty. An older woman with short dark hair is standing nearby, a little toy mouse in her hand. The deputies get out to greet her and when the woman sees them, her expression goes sour. 

“It’s about damn time.”

“Got here as soon as we could, Ms. Mable.” 

“Well, it wasn’t soon enough and who the hell is this?” The woman’s eyes narrow at Dahlia. 

“I’m Deputy-” 

“Junior Deputy,” Pratt cuts her off and she scoffs. He can’t at least give her the deputy title. 

“Are you Italian?” Ms. Mable asks instead, and Dahlia can’t help but give a look of disbelief, what does that matter?

“Uh, like, half, yeah.”

“Oh, just what I need for my jewelry to go missing.” 

“Okay…. not even gonna tell you what the other half is…” 

“Do you have any idea where Peaches might have gone?” Pratt steers the conversation back, thankfully saving Dahlia from anymore conversation about her heritage. 

“Sometimes she goes down to the little camp south of here.” 

“Alright, we’ll get it taken care of. Probie, go grab that bag of treats.”

Dahlia nods and grabs the bag of treats, chicken livers, because animal treats are all weird and gross. She carries it with her as she follows Pratt down the rural little path, over a little bridge that crosses a stream. The woods clears out to a small campsite with tents and an extinguished campfire. 

“Not to be a buzzkill, but isn’t this a little below our paygrade? I mean Mable isn’t decrepit, surely she can get her own cat back.” 

“Don’t worry about it, just get the treats out, Peaches will come running to you.” Pratt is leaning back against a towering tree, arms crossed, relaxed like he’s on vacation. 

“Okie doke…” 

Dahlia rifles through the bag and gets out a treat, squishy and weird under her fingers. Her hands are going to reek like cat food for the rest of the day. She crouches down and holds the treat out; looking around the area, trying to find the housecat, but she can’t see anything. 

“Here Peaches,” she calls out, hoping to entice the cat out. 

Then she’s on her back. 

The wind has gone out of her lungs, heavy paws pin her shoulders down as a mass of golden fur lands on her. She blinks for a minute, stars dazing her vision as shock overwhelms her. Then she takes it in. Sharp feline eyes glaring down at her, one gold and the other blue. 

A cougar. 

She clenches her jaw; she’s pinned and can’t reach her weapons. She’s at the mercy of the animal. Its lips pull back and white fangs shine in the daylight, the sun illuminating the golden cat on top of her. Beautiful, she can’t help but think as she waits for those fangs to sink into the tender flesh of her throat. 

It pushes it maw into her open hand, where the chicken liver is and gobbles it up. She’s next, isn’t she? But once the treat is gone, the cougar licks at her hand, collecting any leftover flavor. Then it turns back to her, the main dish after an appetizer. 

A sandpaper rough tongue rubs over Dahlia’s face. Something is revving like an engine on top of her…the cougar is purring. Pressing and nuzzling its fluffy face against Dahlia before giving another lick. No hint of bite or teeth mingling in the affectionate gesture. What is…

Pratt is laughing, she realizes. 

The cougar’s paws shift so she can lift her arms and she reaches to pet the seemingly docile mountain lion. That’s when she feels, a collar, the creature’s face was too close, and she was unable to see it. As she shifts the collar, she hears a bell jingle. 

“Peaches, meet Rook. Rook, Peaches,” Pratt manages to say through his hyena cackling. 

“Peaches!? Holy shit…holy shit!” 

Dahlia is able to move out from under the cougar, Peaches shifting her weight enough to allow the young deputy to stand up. The big cat watches as Dahlia moves, tail delicately flicking back and forth, mismatching eyes gleaming. A thunderous purr lets out as Dahlia scoops up the bag of treats that fell in the pounce of Peaches landing on her. She offers another and the cat greedily eats it from her hand. Dahlia’s cheeks ache from the big smile stretched across her face, this is incredible. She’s feeding a mountain lion, domesticated mountain lion. 

“You know…” Pratt draws out, laughter having died out as he watches them, “I kinda expected you to freak out.” 

“This is so cool. She just…domesticated a cougar?” 

“Yeah, from what I heard this ain’t the first one either, technically this is Peaches two.” 

“No points for creativity, but fuck, this is, holy shit.” She scratches beneath Peaches’ ear and she leans into it, purring with every rub of Dahlia’s blunt nails. 

“You like animals?” 

“Don’t you?”

“They’re okay,” Pratt walks over and pets Peaches head, “I’ll take you to the F.A.N.G Center, we ever catch a day off.” 

“Yeah,” she catches what he just said and raises an eyebrow at him, “you wanna spend your days off with me?” 

“C’mon we gotta get Peaches back to Ms. Mable.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Use the treats to lure her back, toss ‘em and she’ll run after them.” 

“That seems tedious…” 

“Nothing else we can do; you can’t pack her.” 

“I mean, I could,” Dahlia says with a shrug, Peaches is big, but she’s strong. Wouldn’t be easy, per say; but she could manage it. 

“You can’t lift a cougar, Thumbelina,” Pratt tells her again, ruffling her hair as if to emphasize her diminutive size. She pouts and glares at him. Dahlia digs out a treat and lifts it up. 

“Peachy up,” she says and pats her shoulder. 

To her surprise, the cougar jumps right up. Front paws on Dahlia’s shoulder and hind legs on her stomach. The deputy uses her free hand to wrap around the cougar, feeding her the treat before moving to use both hands to support the cat’s weight. Her legs and arms strain with the strength to lift her, but she doesn’t buckle. 

Pratt scoffs as Peaches nuzzles against Dahlia, sandpaper rough kisses. With a roll of his eyes; the older deputy leads the way back up to Peaches Taxidermy. Dahlia’s trying not to laugh as she carries the cougar, licks and nuzzles that leave her hair sticking up at odd angles, irritating red raised spots on her skin. Peaches might actually be more affectionate than most housecats Dahlia’s been around. 

The walk uphill nearly sends her tumbling, making Pratt snicker as she gets her bearings back. Finally, they return to the cleaning, Ms. Mable seeming to perk up, if only a small amount, at the sight of her cat. 

“There she is, gracing us with her presence,” her tone is meant to be sarcastic, but there’s no genuine malice as Dahlia takes the time to carry Peaches to her enclosure. 

The big cat takes her time getting the message to jump down, but after a moment she leaps off onto the big rubber tire in her enclosure. Dahlia gives her one more scratch behind her ears before stepping out of the enclosure, locking the little latch. 

“How’d she get out?” Dahlia asks, looking for tears in the caging, if need be she can mend it for Ms. Mable. 

“I was feeding her and she went rushing out.” 

Dahlia nods in understanding, at least there’s no more efforts that need to be made. She tries to fiddle with and fix her cat drool covered hair, but without a mirror she gives up. Pratt snickering against the back of his hand as she makes her was back over from the cage. 

“Try to keep a better eye on her, have a great day.” 

“Eh, get out of here, shoo!” 

Her and Pratt go back to the patrol car, Dahlia plopping down into the passenger side with a huff. Pratt turns to look at her, a stupid grin pulling at his lips. Her cheek is irritated, no doubt bright red from Peaches’ scratchy tongue and her hair is falling out of it’s tie, as well as sticking up at weird angles. Little golden hairs are clinging to her clothes. But, she’s grinning.

The laughter erupts, her cheeks ache and her stomach twinges as she can’t contain it. She holds her sides, cackling at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. She just carried a cougar. She’s covered in kitty slobber. 

“You look like you’ve been through a tornado!” 

“I just carried a cougar,” she says amazed, “ there’s nothing you can say to ruin this day!” 

He just rolls his eyes as the laughter dies down; Dahlia pulling down the mirror to fix her hair. After a few moments of her taming slobber coded flyaway hairs the radio crackles to life from the car console. 

“Units, there’s been a call in from Audrey, she said Aaron is back behind her diner and rummaging through trash.” 

“Pratt, responding, we’ll be there shortly,” he starts the car engine back up, “fuckin’ Tweak.” 

“Tweak?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she fastens her seatbelt. 

“He’s one of the local methheads, most of ‘em hang out in the abandoned train cars. But not ole Tweak, he’s a big fan of digging through dumpsters and shit.” 

“Is he dangerous?” 

“Nah, just a pain in the ass. We’ll pat him down, if he’s got any of the shit on him, we take him in for a while. If not, all we can do is tell him to scram.” 

She nods in understanding and pulls out her phone, searching for drug treatment facilities in the area that offer affordable or pro-bono help. It’s a long shot. She knows that. But she knows that treatment does more good than locking them away does. The nearest place is in Missoula; not exactly ideal, but it’s an option. 

Dahlia digs a scrap piece of paper out of the glove department and scribbles down the number, name, and address. If Pratt notices, he says nothing. She settles back in her seat, watching the world pass by as they make their way south bound through the region.

The lake calm around the island in the middle of the whole county, splashing peacefully against the shores. A deer and it’s baby grazing near the woods. She remembers what she’s been told, about the hiking trails in the mountains. Dahlia has always loved animals and nature, memories of hiding in the woods for days at a time, warming snakes under her jacket or trudging through swamp lands in search of alligators. Then she remembers Pratt mentioning the F.A.N.G Center. She’s read a bit about it, like an animal sanctuary that allows public access. They have some famous bear there. 

“What days do we get off?” 

“Jesus, didn’t you bother talking to the sheriff about that shit?” 

“No.” 

“Fuckin’ Christ…,” he shakes his head, “Deputies get the best shifts, with weekends off.” 

“So, you wanna go to the F.A.N.G center, Saturday or Sunday?” 

“Oh, um, uh…” He scratches at the stubble on his chin, his posture stiffening somewhat. 

“You said, you’d take me, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll take you there… Around like noon, Saturday, good? 

“Sure.” 

Maybe Lloyd was right; Pratt might not be as big of an asshole as she thought. It’s nice of him to offer to show her around places; maybe they can become friends. Even if she’s not the most talkative and he’s not the nicest, who knows, might balance out somehow. 

They pull up to the diner, the same one Whitehorse treated her to the other day. But sure enough in the dumpsters behind the building she can see a man digging through the trash. Pratt parks and shuts off the engine, apparently, he’s okay with her doing this because he doesn’t stop Dahlia from stepping out of the car. Why he’d be more concerned with her at traffic stops than dealing with a drug addict, she wouldn’t know, but she has no intentions of looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Hey, officers can you help me?” A voice asks, stopping them before they get to the dumpsters. The voice is noticeably a bit different from what she’s become used to hearing here, it’s a man with a map in his hand, maybe he’s not a local?

“What can we help you with, sir?” 

“I’m trying to find my way to Rock Bass Lake, but I’m having trouble, finding my way.” 

“It’s far east of here, you have to,” Pratt starts to help, being the one of the two who could actually give directions. Dahlia decides she might as well take care of the Tweak issue while he does that. 

His hooded back continues to dig through the trash; muttering things she doesn’t quite catch. The stranger’s foot slips out under him where he’s climbing up to get in the dumpster and Dahlia lurches forward, catching him before he can fall. 

“Oh fuck, uh thanks, man,” he stutters out as she gets him back on his feet, he’s wearing a backwards cap under his hood, tattoos up on his neck and what may be a tattoo or a smudge of dirt by his eye. 

“No problem, you alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” his eyes land on the sheriff department patch on her shirt, “oh shit, uh, officer.” 

“Hey,...?” She tries to prompt him for his name, even if she already knows it. 

“Uh, Tweak, well my name Aaron, but call me Tweak, please.” He shuffles his feet and awkwardly scratches at his face, stumbling over every word. 

“You know you can’t be doing this, right?” 

“I, uh, well I know that legally, I like can’t. But, I gotta, like, uh, prepare and shit, man.” 

“Prepare?” 

“Shit’s about to hit the fan and I gotta be ready to try to help, ya know?” He scratches at the back of his neck, hard enough for smears of red to stain his fingers. 

“That’s a nice thought, but I think the diner owners would prefer to find other ways to prepare…” she chews her lip, knowing what she needs to check, “do you have anything on you, right now, like substance wise?” 

“Um, oh, uhh, well, I, no, definitely not, I’m clean, m-man, I promise.” 

“You know I gotta check, right?” 

“Yeah…” 

With the ease of someone completely use to pat downs, he place his hands on the dumpster. She sighs; drug cases just aren’t fun, especially when it’s just possession cases, not sellers. It’s one thing to arrest someone for doing something awful and ruining someone’s life. But, when you know what they need more than anything is help, it bugs her to treat them like criminals. She pats him down with a heavy heart, her jaw clenching when she finds a baggie of crystal meth in his pocket. Enough that could warrant at least three years in prison. 

“I swear, I uh, I really don’t know how that got there, I-“ He stutters to explain it away as he turns to face her. 

“Look, dude,” she speaks low, double checking that Pratt is still talking to the non-local, “I know this is rich coming from someone who just met you, but I don’t wanna see you die from this shit. Legal, illegal is whatever, I don’t want someone getting the call and finding you dead in your own sick.” 

“I, uh, I, appreciate that, it’s just, ya know...” 

“It ain’t easy, I get that. I don’t know if you can read this,” she pulls out what she wrote down, then realizes how that might have sounded, “not like I don’t know if you can read, but ‘cause my handwriting is shit, I, you know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I uh, can see the number clear, yeah.” 

“But, it’s a place in Missoula that offers treatment and they work with your income, so you can afford it. You agree to call this place and try to get clean and I’ll ‘accidentally’ flush this stuff and forget I found it on you, sound fair?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s yeah, absolutely, fuck, yeah,” He’s nodding his head furiously to agree. She wants to hope it’s excitement for treatment and not just getting by with having meth on him. 

“Now, if I find out you didn’t, and you get busted again. I will arrest you. And, uh, if you have any trouble getting to Missoula for treatment, you just call down to the station, ask for me and I’ll try to get you taken care of, alright?” 

“That’s yeah, thank you so much, I, thank you,” he gushes and takes the little card from her hand, while she tucks the baggie discreetly into her pocket.

“Okay, now get out of here and leave their dumpster alone.” 

Tweak goes running off; no doubt eager to take his victory and consider it done. Conveniently, right as Pratt manages to break away from the man asking directions. 

“Swear to fuck, that dude didn’t understand a damn thing I said,” he raises an eyebrow, “Tweak didn’t have anything on him?” 

“Nah, he must have smoked the last of it.” 

“Eh, well, you got him to buzz off. All we can do.” 

“Yeah, but, I gotta go to the bathroom, real quick.” 

“Gotcha, we’ll grab a bite to eat while we’re here too.” 

She nods in understanding, the two of them heading into the diner. Cassie the waitress from yesterday is nowhere to be found today, she notes before she heads to the bathroom. Guilt that what she’s doing is indeed illegal and could get her fired eats at the back of her head, but she flushes the drugs away anyway. In a couple weeks, she’ll call the treatment facility and see if he's called in. As she’s buttoning the uniform shirt up, she notices something she hasn’t seen before. What appears to be a helicopter parked at a clearing behind the station, a helipad is the word she thinks?

“The station has helicopters?” 

“Yeah, there’s a lot of woods and fields here, so when we have missing people…helps to get a bird’s eye view.

“That’s really cool,” she admits as they step out of the patrol car. 

“Yeah, I’m our station’s pilot,” Pratt tells her with an arrogant smirk that makes her immediately regret deciding to bring it up. She gives a nod in response, not wanting this to drag on into an excuse for Pratt to stroke his own ego.

Pratt and Hale make their way back into the station bullpen, Hudson is at her desk and working over some paperwork. Little pieces of dark hair falling into her face, the strands that can’t be pulled back into her braid. Dahlia’s heart picks up a strange pace at the way the light catches in Hudson’s green eyes. Ignoring it and swallowing the lump in her throat, Dahlia sits down at her own, bare desk, still needing her to add her own touches.

“Heard you guys had to get Peaches back for Ms Mable,” Hudson comments as Hale and Pratt settle in.

“Yeah, the big old cat got out again. Probie packed her all the way back from that campsite.”

Hudson lets out a breathy little laugh and heat shoots up Dahlia’s face, she leans back as far as she can in her chair without toppling over, nearly upside down and staring at the wall so the other two deputies won’t see what she’s sure is a beet red face. She’s not sure if it’s the sound of Hudson’s laugh or possibility of embarrassment. Carrying a cougar seemed really cool to her, but what if Hudson thinks it’s stupid?

“You seriously carried that giant cougar?”

“I mean, we had to get it back,” Dahlia says, doing her best to shrug nonchalantly as she leans so far back. At least when she sits back up, she can blame the red color on blood rushing to her head.

“Rookie, you’re gonna fall and split your head open.” Whitehorse yells out, making Dahlia jump and nearly make his prediction a reality. She didn’t even hear his office door open, she slides back into place, glaring in his direction as she sinks almost all the way down out of spite.

Another rustle catches her attention and she realizes the two senior deputies are packing up, the shift coming to a close.

“Well, we’re headed to the Spread Eagle for a drink,” Pratt says. She remembers the image of Whitehorse and Lloyd blowing off steam at the bar after a shift, how good of friends they must be. Seems, Hudson and Pratt are that good of friends as well. Then she remembers the F.A.N.G Center invitation.

“Oh, uh, Hudson?”

“Yeah?”

“Pratt offered to take me to the F.A.N.G Center Saturday, you wanna come along?”

Pratt’s jaw clenches and she sees what looks like a faint red color brushing over the apples of his cheeks. Hudson is grinning a bright smile though.

“Did he?” she raises an eyebrow at him and Pratt avoids eye contact, “sure, that sounds fun.”

“Yeah...fun,” Pratt grumbles as the pair leave the station, saying goodbyes to Dahlia and Whitehorse.

“So, how was the first day, Rookie?” Whitehorse asks her once the other deputies have left.

“Decent, Peaches was cool, but…”

“But?”

“Pratt wouldn’t let me hand out any tickets or citations, up until Peaches, he was making me sit in the car.”

“Yeah, that figures,” Whitehorse says in a low voice, as if that makes complete sense and maybe to him it does.

“It figures?”

“That what happened to Danny hit him harder than he lets on, Hudson’s been taking it the worst, but it hurt everyone.”

“Danny?”

Whitehorse pulls up a chair to her desk, sitting himself down and taking a sigh as he pulls his hat off his head. There’s a far off look in his blue gray eyes as he collects himself. She moves herself up properly to sit, clenching her jaw as the mood shifts in the office.

“He was the deputy here before you, he was here longer than Hudson or Pratt.”

She nods, not wanting to interrupt, just letting him know she’s listening. He takes another sighing breath, voice rasping from the difficulty of talking about this.

“He was Hudson’s partner, during a routine traffic stop, he was shot and died on the scene. He was a good man and his death has...left an impact on us all.”

“I’m sure, thanks for telling me.” She’s not sure how she’d feel about it, having never lost a coworker in the line of duty.

“No problem,” he rises from his chair and plops his hat back on his head.

A warm heavy hand lands on the top of her hair and he ruffles it, she laughs. The little gesture makes warmth flood her heart, he really does remind her so much of Lloyd every now and again. It helps make this entire thing a bit easier and maybe that’s part of why he wanted her to take this job so bad, maybe he knew his old friend would make this process a less painful one.

She grabs her jacket from the little hook, throwing it on as she follows the sheriff out of the station. The cool night air chills her skin, a breeze blowing her hair back. There’s a beautiful night sky hanging overhead, the stars are brilliant and vibrant. Nothing blocking out their radiance. A soft gasp escapes her lips. 

“You won’t see a night sky like that anywhere else,” Whitehorse tells her, squeezing her shoulder; warmth seeping into her bones even as the night tries to chill her. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Do you know any constellations, Rookie?” 

She shakes her head no, feeling Whitehorse squeezing her shoulder, the warmth and kindness of it grounding in a way. 

“That one right there is Andromeda,” he points out a collection of stars that are meant to create some image, not that she can see it, “you know her story?”

“No.”

“Her mother, Cassiopeia, pissed off a bunch of nymphs and when they sent monsters after them. She chained Andromeda up and offered her as a sacrifice to save herself.”

Dahlia clenches her jaw; a mother offering her child up to a monster. She wishes that didn’t resonate so deeply in her heart. Constellations have never been something that interested her, she thinks stars are beautiful, but every time someone tries to show her a constellation she can’t seem to see the picture in her head. They’re just specks of light, pinpricks of vibrancy in a black void. But… she makes a note of these ones, hoping she can find them again later. 

The rumble of an engine and tires screeching ends the peaceful moment, a white truck coming to a rubber burning. She tenses, the frantic driving setting her on edge immediately. A man jumps out of the driver seat, about six feet tall with a beard and snakes tattooed down his forearms. The word WRATH tattooed and crossed out on his chest; she immediately is reminded of the worker at the hotel. She was told it was now in Eden’s Gates hands, those sins seem to be standard within the religion.

“Lonny, was expecting to see you sooner,” Whitehorse greets him.

“Just now got word, you had some of our men locked up.”

“Your men?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow, the wording throwing her off. His narrowed eyes land on her and he smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes and images of wolves baring their teeth flash through her mind.

“Members of the Father’s flock; Nathaniel and Theodore. You wouldn’t happen to be the new deputy who arrested them, would you?”

“You already know about me?”

“Well, when brother Theodore called he mentioned a little girl trying to play cop.” The man inches closer, into her personal space.

“I’m not playing anything and your ‘brothers’ were robbing the bar.”

“Confiscating deputy, cleaning up filth within the county, you should be thankful we’re trying to do your job for you and actually help the people here.”

“Your ‘help’-”

“We’re clocking out for the night Lonny, our night shift officers have all reported in, you can talk to the dispatch about bailing them out.” Whitehorse interjects, sticking a hand between them.

“Will do… that your bike?” He asks, nodding towards her motorcycle, barely acknowledging Whitehorse.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Just making small talk. You two have a good night, I’ll be seeing you around deputy.” Lonny tells her as he starts to walk back into the station, giving her a clap on the back that’s meant to look friendly, but there is nothing gentle in the harsh smack.

Once he’s out of earshot, Dahlia turns to look at Whitehorse, her expression must be making it clear what’s on her mind.

“You don’t wanna be making enemies your first day on the job.”

“I wasn’t doing anything, you saw the way he acted.”

“Just try to place nice, Rookie.”

“I do play nice, but I’m not taking anyone’s crap. He wants to pick a fight with me, I’ll pick one right back.”

“Try to stay on Eden’s Gate’s good side, they’re not dangerous, but they’re not people to be fucked with.”

“I’m not fucking with anyone, but if they break the law, I will arrest them same as I would anyone.”

“I’m not saying not to,” he puts a hand on her shoulder and looks into her eyes, trying to calm her, “I’m just saying try not to fuel any fires.”

“I ain’t fueling shit,” she grumbles, fingers clenching around her helmet.

“Stop pouting.”

“I’m not pouting...I’m scowling.”

“Well stop that too, head your ass home and stay safe, Rook.”

“Okay, dad,” she says with a roll of her eyes, earning another hair ruffle from Whitehorse. She waves a quick bye and pulls on her helmet before heading home.

The alarm clock buzzes her awake the next morning and she groans, half dressed, and her blanket tossed across the room. Sweat has built on her skin over the night. Reinette was worse with heat, but it’s hot enough to annoy. Then again, maybe she’s just being a baby. She’s always been finicky with temperatures.

Fresh from the shower, she’s trying to figure out what to do about her uniform. She knows already she’s going to blatantly disobey uniform policies when Whitehorse isn’t around. But she can’t exactly get away with wearing shorts. Ripped jeans and a cropped top are all she can manage, buttoning the green shirt up before going into the station.

“What are you wearing?” Pratt asks when she starts unbuttoning her uniform shirt in the patrol car. 

“Clothes.” 

“Barely. No ones going to take you seriously dressed like that.” 

She shakes her head, it’s not that bad. Black velvet and lace, with a laced up ribbon tie. There’s some stomach showing where it cuts off, peeks of it through the lacey section of the fabric, and maybe through where it’s laced together. 

“Skin is skin, everyone has it, who cares?” 

“People around here will care.”

“Oh please, no one worries about shit like that anymore.” 

Pratt rolls his eyes before he starts up the patrol car engine. They’re barely thirty minutes into patrolling the Holland Valley when dispatch comes through the radio. 

“We got a call from Hurk Drubman Sr., says someone’s messing with his campaign again,” the dispatcher Nancy tells them.

“This should be interesting,” Pratt murmurs under his breath before picking up the radio to answer, “Pratt and Hale, responding.”

Dahlia can’t help but let out a little sigh, only a day in and she’s caught on that ‘interesting’ to Pratt more than likely means it will be something meant to annoy or embarass her. But then again last time, he thought introducing her to Peaches would scare her and that was just plain cool. As soon as she talks to Lloyd and Caroline she just knows ‘I cuddled a cougar’ is going to be the first thing she tells them. So, what’s truly the worst that could happen?

They travel through the Henbane River region and around; Drubman Sr.’s home is apparently not far from where the Whitetail Mountain area meets Henbane, north of the entire county. It’s a nice area, with a large house, a giant garage with a Jeep parked inside of it, and it’s right on the water; white steps leading to a dock. It’s beautiful place to live, that’s for sure. As they pull in, she sees an older man with a dark mustache and a cap pulled over his head, he sits in a chair on the porch with a shotgun in his lap.

She shoots a glance over to Pratt, the sight of a weapon setting a bit on edge, but he seems unaffected. Guns weren’t uncommon in Louisiana, southern state and all. But, the people in Reinette tended to be less…blasé about their gun ownership she supposes. Only using them for farming purposes; dealing with pests, wild animals, and on one of two sorrowful occasions having to put down a beloved animal who had no hope of recovering. She can’t say she knew anyone who’d just have it out like a lap puppy.

Dahlia follows Pratt out of the car and she immediately feels the old man’s eyes land on her, her skin crawls, he doesn’t like her. She knows what it’s like for someone to despise her and this man is already about there.

“About damn time!” He immediately bellows out as they come up to the porch.

“Is every old person in this county an ungrateful dick?” Dahlia grumbles under her breath, earning an elbow in her ribs from Pratt that almost hurts, she sticks her tongue out at him.

“And who the hell is this? Bad enough you even let women on the force, but now they’re dressing up like whores!”

“Rude.”

“Don’t worry about her, why did you call?”

“Some liberal fuckhead broke onto my damn property and vandalized my signs!”

Dahlia cranes her neck a bit, there’s a stack of signs just behind the old jackass, red and white Vote Drubman signs that have been covered in various curse words, all written in dark black marker. Apparently, someone doesn’t like him, she can’t possibly imagine why. 

“Alright, we’ll file a report for vandalism and see what we can do.”

“Which is code for doing a fat load of nothing, that’s the problem with cops nowadays, too scared to take any action. Too pussified to put a bullet in anyone anymore.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s actually the exact opposite, but go off, I guess.” 

“Probie, get the report forms from the car.”

She groans and makes her walk back to the patrol car, digging out the forms to file a report before bringing them back. Pratt is asking questions and jotting things down as the old man prattles them off. Despite never seeing who did it, he’s convinced it must be some ‘libtard’ and probably a ‘minority’, desperate to sink his campaign. She leans against one of the pillars of the house, staring off into space as Pratt starts filling out the small detail crap. 

“You a registered voter?” Hurk Sr. suddenly asks her.

“You called me a whore, five seconds ago.”

“I said you were dressed like one, get it right.”

“Jesus fucking christ.” 

“Hey, daddy!” A masculine voice suddenly calls out, there’s a man walking onto the property. Portly and tall with short dark hair.

“Oh god, he’s back.” Hurk Sr. grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Now, I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little sad you couldn’t come get me from the airport and made me walk all the way out here. But no hard feelings between family, and,” his blue eyes land on Dahlia and she raises an eyebrow at him, “oh, you didn’t have to hire a stripper just to welcome me home, not that I mind.”

“Excuse you?” Dahlia says low and stern, indignation making heat floods up her cheeks, what is wrong with him? It’s a crop top and jeans, not pasties and a g-string, who the hell would even look at her and think stripper? How desperate do you have to be? Her hand is hovering over her taser as the man comes closer, if he does anything weird, he’s getting it.

Pratt sputters and bursts into laughter, holding his stomach as he cracks up. She kicks him firmly in the shin and again when he just laughs louder. This isn’t funny, she’s about to murder every man here. 

“God damn it Junior, I am in the middle of discussing a serious matter, I told you not to come back here!”

“Oh, don’t be like that daddy. You know mama doesn’t want me at the Marina since she had Xander move in, says she can’t have too much stupid in one place, same reason she doesn’t like when Sharky visits.”

“So why the hell should I have to put up with it?!”

“Ah, come on.”

“Hey, if we’re done with the report can we go?’ She looks over at Pratt, between stripper comments and family bickering, she’d rather be elsewhere.

“I don’t know I’m having fun,” he says pressing a hand to his mouth, nearly out of breath from laughing.

“You left the keys in the car and I will leave your ass out here.”

“Well, we’ll be going now.”

“Oh, you’re already leaving,” Junior as his dad called him, starts to say, looking directly at her chest and the meager amount of cleavage she’s showing. Her fingers wrap around her taser.

“You can’t tase him for that.”

“Bullshit,” she grumbles as she yanks open the car door. 

Dahlia plops down into the passenger side with a heavy sigh, disgusted by the interaction. Why would anyone ever look at her sexually? She doesn’t like that; she has the sex appeal of a twig and she likes it that way. It’s ridiculous. She hears Pratt start snickering again as she starts to button up her uniform shirt, even when she glares, he just keeps laughing, each cackle earning a strong “Fuck off,” from her. 

“You should let me drive,” Dahlia says after boring hours of traffic stops pass by, landing themselves back in the valley.

“What?”

“If you’re not going to let me hand out tickets, at least let me drive so I don’t go crazy from boredom.”

“You need to find a hobby or something, you’re bored every second.”

“I’d be less bored if you let me drive.”

“I’ve seen how you ride your motorcycle.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How you haven’t been pulled over, you drive like a maniac.”

“I don’t go that fast and I’m smart about it.”

“You aren’t smart about anything.”

“I’m smart about noticing the people trying to steal copper from the railyard,” she comments as she spots three men grabbing copper in broad daylight to shove in duffle bags so they can sell it.

“God damn it,” Pratt grumbles and flashes on the sirens, she grabs the spare set of cuffs, they skid to a stop in the railyard.. The three men scramble to escape, but Pratt and Hale are already out of the patrol car and nearly on top of them.

Dahlia manages to grab the back of two of their shirts, pulling them back towards her before they can get to the woods. Judging by the groan, Pratt nabbed the other guy.

“You’re under arrest for trespassing and theft, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney if you do not have one will be appointed to you, do you understand?” She reads them their rights as she quickly manages to slap handcuffs on them both before either can run away.

When she turns to get a good look at their face, she recognizes them. Two young boys she’s seen around the trailer park, probably around her age, from what she’s seen they still live with their parents and seem to have no plans of working or going to school.

“Aren’t you kinda old to be helping kids steal shit, Boshaw?” Pratt asks as she’s putting the two younger boys into the back of the car. They’ll be a little jammed in, but not her problem.

“C’mon man, this shit is just left out here, no one does nothing with it,” he grumbles, she recognizes him as the guy from the trailer park who technically doesn’t live there, Sharky, at least she thinks that’s his name. 

“Doesn’t mean you can just take it, dumbass,” she says, rolling her eyes. He can’t be this dumb. It’s not like any of them are going hungry or don’t have the necessities.

“Who the hell are you?”

“The deputy currently arresting you.”

“Junior Deputy,” Pratt corrects in his never-ending quest to be an asshole.

“Junior deputy, like the cop crap they tried to make us do in high school?” Sharky says, raising an eyebrow at Dahlia. 

“I’m twenty.” 

“Jesus, I thought I was dumb, shouldn’t you have graduated by now?”

“Get in the car, now”

They put the cuffed Sharky in the backseat of the cruiser along with his two partners in literal crime. Dahlia wonders for a moment if this will make things worse in the trailer park, they’re already not fantastic. But things haven’t gotten worse after that initial night, a beer can being thrown at her head is still the worst thing to happen. No one is friendly with her, but nothing has escalated. A part of her worries if arresting three trailer park residents, well two residents and one trailer park adjacent will make things escalate. Though, Boshaw didn’t seem to even recognize her. So, she’ll take that as her saving grace. 

There’s a large jail in the Hebane river area but she’s learned quickly that it’s no longer functional. Offenders now held in the small collection of cells in the back of the station and if the crime is bad enough, they’re shipped off out of county to the nearest big city prison. Apparently, there just wasn’t enough criminals getting caught to justify the cost of maintenance for the huge building. 

They pull into the station parking lot, dragging the three offenders out from the back of the cruiser. They start the booking process, filing the paperwork as the three stooges sit handcuffed on a bench. She catches them making faces a few times before they’re being taken back to the cells. 

“You son of a bitch!” A sharp gruff yell comes barreling through the front of the station. The sheriff holding back a man’s cuffed hands as he twists and tries to evade him. It’s an older man, maybe older than Whitehorse, with a bald head and glasses. 

“Screaming at me won’t help you, Dutch.” 

“Fuck off, I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

“You can’t trespass.”

“Those peggies have trespassed and taken everything from us, yet I don’t see any of them here.”

“We literally had two Eden’s Gate members here, yesterday,” Dahlia answers with a roll of her eyes. Some people try to act like things are unfair just because they’ve been caught. She’s not ignorant to flaws or failures in the law, police brutality against black people, profiling, and the like. But this isn’t that type of situation. A peggie breaks the law, they get arrested, a non-peggie breaks the law, they get arrested. Plain and simple. 

“Who the fuck asked you!?” 

“Enough,” Whitehorse says as he makes his way towards where Dahlia is, voice lowering so the man can’t hear him, “it’s not worth the fight, Rook.”

She rolls her eyes; nothing is ever worth the fight it seems. First it was that Lonny guy and now this guy. Maybe she’s too quick to argue, but that’s the reason she wanted to be a cop. Fighting for justice and all that, doing what’s right and not letting people push her around. When the hell is, she going to find a fight that’s worth it?

The older man, Dutch, gets settled away in his jail. Whitehorse walking back from the cells once he’s secured it. 

“That guy had an attitude problem,” Dahlia grumbles. 

“That’s Dutch, one of our prepper doomsday guys, anti-government, anti-law, he’s a regular at this point.” 

“He doesn’t think very highly of Eden’s Gate.” 

“Not many do,” Pratt tells her. 

“Dutch is the kind to assume the worst of, well, anyone. You’d be smart to avoid him, Rook.” A warm hand on her head, ruffling her hair punctuates that sentence. 

The day drags on calmly and boringly after that, the end of the shift once again ending with Hudson and Pratt going to the Spread Eagle. And she goes home alone to her empty trailer...to eat dinner from a tupperware container. 

And the next day isn’t much different; a report filled out for some petty theft from the Golden Valley Gas Station, more patrol of her begging Pratt to just let her drive, let her write a ticket, anything. By noon she was just adjusting her seat up and down to keep herself moderately entertained. Pratt was far from amused, but he only has himself to blame. And that evening, Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle to relax after work. She goes home alone, trying to ignore the melancholic ache when her footsteps echo in the empty trailer; the only sound that greets her. 

Thursday, nearly the end of the work week, she gets a break in the form of cows busting through the fences of the Davenport farm. Sun high in the sky, she and Pratt led them back home, with her patching the fence once all was taken care of. A cow licked her, and Pratt stepped in shit, the ideal day. Then the end of the day rolls around and she finds herself watching the two older deputies leave for drinks again. 

She’d be lying if she said the end of each workday doesn’t leave her a little melancholy. Watching Pratt and Hudson go hang out, while she makes the trip back to her sparsely decorated trailer surrounded by people who hate her. 

Asking to come along would be pointless. She’s not old enough to drink and wouldn’t want to make anyone feel awkward about it, or at least would feel awkward herself. It’s just one of those things where trying to be included would make it that much more apparent how she doesn’t fit in. 

It’s not Pratt or Hudson’s job to include her, to make her feel better. She can’t be upset with them because she feels out of place no matter where she goes. 

And when the end of Friday comes along and she’s watching them go off to have fun without her, the way longtime friends only can. She reminds herself of the planned trip to the F.A.N.G Center, holding out hope that it will be a positive step to feeling a little less like a fish out of water.

Dahlia has survived her first week of work;. she hasn’t been fired and she hasn’t been maimed at this point. There’s a long way to go in terms of, well, everything. But she has yet to fail spectacularly. Small blessings, she supposes. 

The sun is out bright and shining Saturday, and she wonders if her good mood shows on her face. She’s waiting a distance from the trailer park entrance, not wanting him to have to deal with the residents who may not be a big fan of cops. Which is all of them from the looks of it. Dirty looks thrown her way only increasing since the railyard arrest, one of the younger boy’s mom muttering something that rhymes with witch, when Dahlia walked past. 

She takes a deep inhale of fresh air, feeling the early day sun warming her skin where her tank top doesn’t cover. A breeze blowing by through the field of white blossoms, the faint scent tickling her nose. The young deputy only knows a bit about the F.A.N.G Center it’s like a mixture of a zoo and an animal sanctuary; with a super domesticated bear as their mascot. She has three goals going into today; become better friends with her fellow deputies, not make an idiot of herself in front of Hudson, and pet a bear. 

A small black car comes pulling up; it seems as if trucks are much more common in Hope County, Pratt is driving, and Hudson is in the passenger seat. Bugs are crawling in her stomach, butterflies or whatever, just at seeing Hudson through the windshield; her hair is out of its usual braid, long dark hair brushing just above her chest. Getting worked up over seeing loose hair, what is wrong with her? Hudson is just a person, an unbelievably attractive and seemingly really cool person, but a person. The car comes to a stop as Dahlia berates herself internally.

Dahlia stretches her arms out, listening to the pop of her joints before she pulls open the backseat door behind Hudson; her desire for leg room outweighs her desire to have a better view of the older deputy. Besides, knowing her luck she’d have a heart attack at the sight.

“Joey,” Pratt says, looking at Hudson, “switch seats with Rook.”

The sound of him using Hudson’s first name just sounds strange to Dahlia’s ears, but she supposes they’re close while she’s still just the rookie.

“And why would I do that?” There’s a hint of mischief in Hudson’s voice as she asks and Dahlia catches her cheeky smile in the rearview mirror, heat pricking up under her skin at the sight.

“Because…,” Pratt chews on his lip, stumped to find one, “shut up.”

“I’m fine in the backseat,” Dahlia says, shrugging, she’s not so immature that she’d fight over who rides shotgun. Okay, maybe if it was Pratt or Chase, she’d be that immature. But, not with Hudson.

One issue with getting closer to her coworkers that becomes glaringly obvious during the drive is that developing friendships requires talking. Dahlia isn’t great, good, or even okay at talking. She has the verbal skills of a cavewoman raised by wolves. Everytime she strings together a complete sentence, she’s impressed. Bonus points if it actually makes sense. 

As Pratt drives them through the area, idly chatting with Hudson as the radio plays, she finds herself constantly wanting to talk. But it never happens. The words constantly stuck in her throat, bubbling beneath the surface, but never escaping her mouth. It always feels wrong. The subject changes before she has a chance to chime in, the conversation about things and places she knows nothing about, and each time Hudson so much as glances her way it feels like her entire body is shutting down. 

She ends up just settling back into her seat, gazing out the window as the scenery passes by. Maybe it will be easier at the F.A.N.G Center, animals and stimuli all around; things they can all talk about. 

That hope shifts into dread when she sees the busy parking lot outside of the center. Families carrying around kids into the small zoo. She doesn’t hate crowds, per say. She’s been to dance clubs and stuff; traveling up to the bigger city in Louisiana to dance and blow off steam. But, she doesn’t like certain crowds. There's a difference when music is pumping into the room; a different energy to everything. But, maybe it won’t be that bad. It's realistically probably not that many people, the place isn’t a huge zoo, so it likely looks more packed than it actually is. Maybe it won’t be as bad inside. 

Pratt finds a parking spot, relatively far out, unable to get anything closer. Dahlia steps out of his car, kicking up dirt as the two other deputies get out. She gets the best look at Hudson she’s gotten since the day started. Hudson’s hair is out of it’s usual plait, blowing around in the breeze. The pale yellow of her top contrasts beautifully against her dark skin; the tank top also allows Dahlia to get a better look at Hudson’s tattoo. As she suspected an eagle design with the American flag that makes Dahlia suspect some sort of military background in at least Hudson’s family. 

“Come on.” Pratt slaps a friendly hand on Dahlia’s back, making her jump, how long has she been staring at Hudson? Oh god, she’s already made an idiot out of herself. She lets him usher her a bit towards the entrance, trailing after the pair of older deputies after a second. 

“There’s a lot of people,” she comments when they step into a long line, filled predominantly with families and kids. 

“Yeah, there’s not much to do in the county, so this is where almost everyone goes.”

“Options around here are basically; drinking, hunting, fishing, the F.A.N.G center and the arcade.” 

“I saw stuff about uhhh, god, Clutch something? Looks fun…”” Little memorial spots for some stunt guy who’s from Hope County. Maybe she’ll take her motorcycle through one of the little stunts. Some seem fine, probably avoid the planes and she thinks there's one where the guy just set himself on fire and called it a stunt. She’s reckless, but even that seems dumb and also she can’t fly. 

“I don’t even know why they still have that shit up; no one is dumb enough to try that crap,” Hudson says, rolling her eyes. 

“Its an old daredevil guy; someone thought it’d be a smart idea to mark his stunts for other people to try, all its done is lead to lots of drunk idiots crashing and getting themselves hurt.” 

“Yeah...dumb.” Dahlia shoves her hands in her pockets, staring at her feet, now she looks stupid. So, that’s fun. 

“Huha, you smell...like a cheeseburger!” A loud goofy voice comes from the giant waving version of their famous bear; a statue perched high in the air that greets you when you come in. That’s a voice that will...get old quickly. 

They get inside and Dahlia immediately realizes that no, it does feel just as packed inside as it does outside. In fact, it feels worse. The small zoo, sort of animal sanctuary, is largely composed of it’s animal enclosures. Wolves, cougars, bears an eagle sanctuary, and she sees some skunk and wolverine enclosures. This leaves less area for the visitors to wander around and given how many people are here; that’s not pleasant. 

People move, bump, and shuffle around; someone nearly sending Dahlia directly into Pratt’s back. Kids shriek and yell, excitedly running to look at each and every animal, not caring when they slam against someone on their way through. The heat of the day isn’t bad, but when packed in with every family in the county it feels unbearable, people brush past her and she feels their body heat. 

“Everyones crowding around Cheeseburger; wanna go see the other bears?” Pratt offers, looking back at Dahlia for confirmation. 

“Yeah, sounds good.” Maybe that means it will be a little less packed over there. They shuffle through the area, some kid running by and smearing sticky cotton candy fingers over her jeans. She keeps hearing the annoying cartoon voice; both from the overhead statue and people packing around little bobbleheads that say the same lines over and over again. 

She’s not a germaphobe, she’s not claustrophobic, she doesn’t have misophonia, or any of those things; at least she’s never considered herself any of those things. But she doesn’t like this. It’s too much. When she’s gone places to dance; it’s one overwhelming stimulus. The music is so loud it overwhelms everything else. The closeness to people not bothering her because she’s preoccupied with the energy of it all. This...is clumsy, gross. Instead of one overwhelming stimulus it’s several stimuli all clashing about and banging together. Instead of losing herself in fun and feeling a part of something; she feels awkward, clunky, out of place. Happy families, messy children, the two older deputies talking breezily as they weave through it all; occasionally stopped by someone who knows them. 

“Oh Joey, I haven’t seen you in so long-”

“Hey, Pratt, how have you been?” 

And Dahlia stands, pressing herself as close to the nearest wall as she can, so people can push past her with the littlest chance of touching her. She curses under her breath when a kid steps on her toe and their mother glares at her. Everyone in this county seems to glare at her, it seems like. Her toes and head are throbbing when she hears the statue tell people they smell like a cheeseburger for the billionth time. 

The bears are beautiful; two large black bears playing within their pen. Both having been injured in some way, one has it’s leg bandaged, and in the process of rehabilitation. But Dahlia can’t see much more of the bears, before someone shoves past her to get a better look, immediately blocking her view. 

She shouldn’t be here, she doesn’t belong here, she wants to leave, but she doesn’t want to be a buzzkill since neither Hudson or Pratt seem to mind any of this. But her head hurts, her toe hurts, everything is too much and it’s getting hard to breathe. 

“After we grab something to eat, I wanna look at the eagles,” Hudson says, and Dahlia sees her chance. 

“I’m gonna smoke real quick, I’ll be right behind ya,” Dahlia tells them with a wave before she makes a beeline towards the exit. She nearly barrels through a few people as she moves, her throat getting tighter and tighter with every step; heart pounding to escape her ribcage. She needs out, she needs to get away. 

She breaks through the crowd and into the parking lot; jogging past the people just pulling into the parking lot. Dahlia finds herself in the woods around the center, far enough out that she can no longer hear that insipid statue and she sits down in the grass. She curls up for a moment, knees to her chest as she takes some deep breaths. Slowly feeling her body start to calm down; her heart rate slowing and each breath coming a little easier. It’s been a while since she had a moment like that; though last time it was much worse, and she understood why it happened. This time the cause is a little less certain. 

Maybe it was too much going on, maybe it was stares and odd looks, maybe she put too much emphasis and pressure on this day going well. Maybe she’s just a mess. 

She scrambles her brain to make sense of it; she vaguely remembers a school trip to an amusement park that didn’t go well. But, she’s not sure if that’s enough to warrant this kind of reaction. Hell, if she had this strong a reaction to something that ended badly for her; she wouldn’t be functional. 

The young deputy stands to her feet, lighting a cigarette and letting the nicotine flood her lungs, easing her nerves for a moment before she breathes the smoke back out into the air. She has no intentions of heading back to the center. All that’d happen is her having another freakout, maybe she can revisit the F.A.N.G Center during a weekday after work when it’d be less crowded or once she’s on permanently take a day off for it. 

She doesn’t imagine it matters much; she’s an adult and if she wants to leave she can. But, she doesn’t want Pratt or Hudson looking all over for her when they’re getting ready to leave. During the week, she had managed to exchange numbers with Hudson and Pratt. The exchange with Hudson involved her flushing red and nearly having an aneurysm, but it occured. She sends Pratt a quick text

**"i left sorry"**

Hopefully, he won’t be too aggravated with her and Hudson won’t think she’s a total loser. Dahlia slips in earbuds; time to find out how to get home. She heads south, she’ll head that way, then go through the valley. It shouldn’t take more than a couple...hours...she’ll be home by morning...at least.

She weaves and walks through the woods, following along the side of the road as much as she can. Large wooden homes occasionally spring up, residents in their yards talking with friends. Trucks and car passing by on the road. 

A restaurant called The Grill Steak with a brightly lit sign catches her eye as she walks past, family at picnic tables eating burgers and laughing. The smell of the cooking deer and bison making her stomach growl; if she did not have such a long walk home, she would stop to eat. 

She’s tip toeing her way around shallow divots of water, jumping over stumps and fallen trees; crushing grass and plants beneath her feet as she goes. Elks and deer occasionally catching her eye as they wander through; darting away when they see her. Little pronghorns snorting somewhere in the distance. 

Dahlia isn’t sure where she is, as the moon starts to shine bright and luminescent in the sky. But she’s following along the side of a road and will eventually see something that she recognizes, probably. The activity of the day has seemed to die down, no longer a steady thrum of people and animals milling about as she moves. All of Hope County must be asleep it seems, no cars are even coming down the road. The moon and stars the only light to guide her; music from her phone the only sound to comfort her. 

> _I’ve been ghosting...I’ve been ghosting along…._

Her eyes scan the night scan; taking in the bright pinpricks of light that break through the black void, trying to find Andromeda. She’s scared for a moment that she’s lost the pattern; unable to track it down and decipher it from every other star. Then she finds it, she believes she has at least; the collection of stars meant to show the woman chained in place, sacrificed by her own mother. 

> _Ghost in the world...Ghost with no home…_

Bright headlights flash up, a car coming over the hill behind her, light pollution drowning out the stars; followed by sharp honking of the horn. The car; a familiar small black vehicle pulls off to the side of the road, just near her. She turns off the music on her phone, eye widening at the amount of notifications that came in while she was walking. Around eight missed calls between Pratt and Hudson. Text after text from Pratt; a few from Hudson. He’s the majority of the calls as well. Is something wrong?

Pratt swings the driver side door open, slamming it shut as he climbs out. She can practically see the car shaking from the force of it. The passenger side window rolls down; Hudson popping her face out. 

“What the fuck, Rookie!” She yells out. 

“Hi…?” 

“Hi, what the fuck?!” Pratt’s face is tense, his eyes angry as he storms towards her.

“What?” 

“What, what? You just vanished!”

“I texted you.” 

“Barely and then what, you threw your phone in the god damn lake?” 

“I have my ringtone and message crap turned off.” 

“Why?!”

“I don’t like when it rings.”

“Do, do you even know where you are right now?!” 

“...Montana…” 

“Get in the car.” 

He grabs her up by the back of the shirt; dragging her towards the car. She lets him; as much as she wants to wrestle herself away if only to prove a point, her feet hurt and she wouldn’t mind a car ride. She slides into the backseat, Pratt taking his place behind the wheel and Hudson looks back at her. The intensity of the green gaze, or perhaps just the person it’s coming from, makes Dahlia shrink back against the leather. 

“Not cool, Rook.” 

“I...don’t see the big deal…” Dahlia grumbles under her breath, feeling like a child scolded on a family trip. 

“The big deal is you, you had no way to get home, no idea w-where you were going, and god knows what could have happened to you!?” Pratt is stuttering and stumbling over his words, as he rushes to yell at her. 

“I don’t get why you’re so angry, I’m a grown adult, if I wanna leave I can leave.”

“It would, would have taken you five minutes to just find us and we could have all left.” 

“I didn’t wanna ruin everyone else’s fun.” 

“Well, you did.” 

Dahlia sighs and flops back against the seat; tension leaving her as her heart sinks. The one thing she didn’t want to do. What was she supposed to do? She ruined their day this way, she would have ruined it by demanding they take her home. Was she supposed to sit and suffer? Maybe just be normal and not freak out, but that’s kind of a lost cause at this point, isn’t it? 

“Pratt was scared,” Hudson tells her, making eye contact through the rearview window, as the car starts up. 

“Shut up,” Pratt tells her. 

“Why would he be scared?”

“Yeah, Pratt, why would you be scared?” 

“Everybody is shutting up, now.” 

“…,” Dahlia pouts, chewing on her lip, before looking towards Hudson, “did you get to see the eagles?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good…” The younger deputy darts her eyes out towards the window, cheeks puffing out and staining red; why does Hudson do this to her? 

The car ride back is awkward, to say the least. Music drifting through the radio is the only sound to disrupt the silence. Dahlia stares out the window and fiddles with the hem of her shirt; wanting to sink into the seat. 

Each second drags on agonizingly long, each moment filled with fidgeting and shame, wishing more than anything she hadn’t asked to do this. 

Before she decides to fling herself out of the car, they manage to make it back to just outside of the trailer park. The moment the car comes to a stop she’s wrenching the door open and climbing out. 

“Wait a second, I’ll walk you to your trailer,” Pratt offers and the idea of spending anymore time with someone who kinda wants to strangle her at the moment. 

“I’m good, see ya, Monday.” 

“Just-“ 

She’s gone, out of earshot before Pratt finishes his sentence; nearly tripping over herself to avoid the awkward situation. Why he’d want to walk her to her trailer is beyond her, maybe he just wanted more chances to be angry, who knows…. She just wants to go to sleep and forget this day happened, she kicks up some dirt and head hanging low, she makes her way through the trailer park. 

“Deputy…been waiting for you.” 


	4. Through The Gates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful. 
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses

A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.

“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.

“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”

“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”

“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”

“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”

“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”

“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”

“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”

Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.

“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”

“Charming.”

“I do try.”

“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”

“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.

“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”

“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”

“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”

“Get bent.”

“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so, which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?” 

He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.

“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”

She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.

There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.

The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?

Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.

Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.

The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.

He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.

Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.

Who the hell runs the PR for this church?

First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.

It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind. 

Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.

“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?

She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.

One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.

Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?

The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.

She goes back to sleep after, still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.

Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch. The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.

She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.

“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”

“Of course, could I have their name?”

“Aaron Kirby.”

“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”

“Understood, thank you.” 

She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.

A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.

Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.

She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.

She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.

She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.

She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.

Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or

Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.

She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.

Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting, and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.

“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.

Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.

She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.

The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.

“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”

She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.

During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.

She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?

Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.

“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.

“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.

“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”

Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.

“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”

Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame. 

The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“We got here quick, she should be fine.” 

“Maybe, lets get going.” 

The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving. 

She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’ 

Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head. 

“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it. 

“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?” 

“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?” She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach. 

“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her. 

She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back. 

  
Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.

“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.

She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.

“I’m actually going to strangle you.”

“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.

“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”

“Not my fault you’re short.”

“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”

“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.

“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.

“Pratt did it.”

The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself, “she managed that all on her own.”

“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”

With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.

“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.

By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone. 

The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.

“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.

“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”

What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.

“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”

“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.

“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”

Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.

“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”

“Our probie junior deputy.”

“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.” 

“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.

“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”

“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.

There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.

The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.

It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.

“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise. 

“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles. 

“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards. 

“You scared it, jackass.” 

“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.” 

“Shhhhhh…”

Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear. 

“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.” 

“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms. 

Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit. 

“Good news, Addie-” 

“I acquired a baby.” 

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.” 

“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.” 

“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp. 

“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet. 

“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing. Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.” 

“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.” 

Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day. 

“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.” 

Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning. 

“Addie…” 

“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.” 

“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs

Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.

“You alright over there, hun?” 

“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.” 

“Oh lord.”

“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response. 

“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-” 

“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson. 

“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”

They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts. 

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”

“No.” 

“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.” 

“I’m not abandoning my child.” 

“It’s literally a wild animal.” 

“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side. 

“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?” 

“No.” 

“Then what?” 

“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?” 

“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.” 

“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.” 

“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.” 

“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.” 

Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide. 

“Who’re the Rye’s?” She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously. 

“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.” 

“That’s nice.” 

“You should come.” 

“I don’t know them.” 

“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.” 

“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?” She raises an eyebrow 

“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.” 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt. 

Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.

“Feed her your lunch.”

“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home. 

“How the hell are you still alive?”

“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”

“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”

“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.

“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”

“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”

“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it. Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”

“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”

“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”

“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.

“...yes..”

“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”

“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.

“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”

“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”

Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.

“....Opossum…?”

“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”

“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl. 

“Why are you encouraging her!?”

“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”

“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”

“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.

“Shut up.”

“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”

“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.

“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”

“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”

“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.

“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”

Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well. Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts. 

“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”

“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif. 

“Why are you holding a opossum?”

“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone. 

“She?”

“Her name’s Petunia.”

“You can’t have a opossum.”

“She’s the station opossum.”

“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”

“So, she’s an outside station pet?”

“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.

“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.

“Told ya, soft on Rook.”

“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”

“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.

“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”

“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”

“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”

“Hilarious.”

The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.

“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”

Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.

“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.

“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer. 

And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry… Adulting sucks. 

There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week. 

Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message. 

Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face. 

Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it; 

‘cant tell who looks better here’ 

Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this. 

A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow. 

“Leave me alone…please…” A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch. 

“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”

The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach. She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt. 

“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp. 

“Fuckin’ peggie whore!” 

“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back. 

She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw. Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption. 

“Wh-who-”

“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.” 

“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“ 

“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”

He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck. Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm. 

“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her. 

“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”

The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are. 

“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine. You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike. 

She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure. 

“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat. 

“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.” 

“I started here about a week ago.” 

“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.” 

“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”

“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…” 

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact. 

“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”

“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.” 

“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill. 

“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”

“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…” 

“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”

“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.” 

“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”

Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla. 

“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers. 

As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it. 

A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches. 

People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her. 

“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear. 

“Brother Theodore, this is-”

“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?” 

“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.” 

“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.” 

“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?

“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.” 

“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?” 

“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?” 

“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.” 

“Oh, uh, I-” 

“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound. 

“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders. 

“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols. 

She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church. 

“You going in?” 

“No.” 

“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door. 

“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?” 

“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church. 

Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets. Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it. 

> _If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired…_

She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away. 

> _Let the water wash away your sins…_

A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while… 


	5. Heart Like A Wildflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo we get some Joseph POV for the first time but certainly not the last. Capturing his voice and energy is not an easy feat for me, but I hope this comes across alright. Also this chapter is a bit short for me; so, hopefully that’s still chill because I’m still very proud of it in many aspects
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings; Joseph being a crazy motherfucker, PTSD Faith Nips (sometimes white dresses are very sheer, don’t kill my vibe), Body Horror

“We’re moving closer and closer to the edge; with every passing day we grow closer to the moment we’ve been preparing for. When the first seal breaks, when we will begin to reap the land for all we need to survive the collapse; to show our strength and our resilience and march through Eden’s Gate as a family. For I am your Father and you are my children…” 

“Praise be to you,” his congregation speaks to him unison, their voices echoing into cacophony in the small church. Despite his growing flock, the church remains small and humble. Joseph much prefers it that way, despite the land and resources to expand, he never wishes to stray from their modest roots.

There’s a catch in his throat as the sermon ends; he means what he says, he always does. But, there is a new gravity to his words. The collapse is close. He knows it. There is a tension rising, the electricity in the air before the storm comes crashing down. The seal has yet to open, but it’s only a matter of time and that time is quickly running out. 

His flock stands from the pews, people of varying gender, race, experience, all united under his message. One woman comes to stand before him, a shake in her hands, Layla a young follower who works under Faith’s guidance for the project. 

It’s not uncommon for members of the flock to come speak to him following service, asking questions and needing his guidance. He knows every member by name; knows their struggles as intimately as he knows his own. So, it is no surprise to see her coming to him for counsel or comfort. Her attire is more surprising, he knows her typical manner of dress, the black leather jacket on her clashing against the vibrancy of her clothes. Behind her, Theodore, a chosen who works under John, lingers behind her. 

“Father Joseph…” She begins tentatively, unsure of herself. 

“Layla, The Father has greater concerns than what you’ve drugged in.” 

“What is it, my child?” 

“I’ve brought someone-”

“A police officer,” Theodore cuts her off, “who arrested brother Nathaniel and I.” 

“A wayward soul worthy of salvation, I don’t know how to explain it, but she saved me, and I knew I had to bring her here, if you’re able to speak with her…” 

“All are worthy of salvation, so long as they open their hearts to us and join our family,” he tells her, casting a glance at Theodore who avoids his gaze, guilt coloring his features. He is a valuable worker, perhaps one of few who can work closely with John and withstand the youngest Seed brother’s more…dramatic inclinations, but he struggles with Pride and Wrath as many do. 

“Please, Father, I don’t know if I can reach her…would you speak with her?” 

“Of course, my child.” Joseph lays a hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease some of the young woman’s nerves.

Layla and Theodore fall in step behind him as he makes his way to the door of the church; his brothers and sister are near the exit. Jacob’s scarred forearms are crossed over his chest, John fiddling with the sleeves of his coat, and Faith leaning against a pew. 

“There’s a cop outside,” Jacob tells him in warning. 

“She’s harmless, I promise.” 

Layla words do nothing to ease the tension in the eldest Seed’s body language, prepared to fight for his family and the project whenever necessary. Joseph squeezes his older brother’s shoulder as he passes, hoping the contact can do something to ease the tension within him. 

The day has already been a stressful one for the Seed family; John spending earlier hours a mess over someone sharing a video of him online only for him to be ridiculed, something easily sending the younger brother into hysterics. Which, while that certainly hasn’t been a priority for anyone else, John has a way of making sure his concerns become everyone else’s concerns. 

Night air chills his fevered skin, wet with sweat from his sermon in the small candle lit church. Members of his flock talking amongst themselves following the service; the only sign of unrest the occasional wary glance towards the side of the church. 

“Layla, are you almost fuckin’ done? I’m freezing my tits off out here and I can’t afford to lose much more.” 

The crude statement comes from a young woman, sitting in front of the church chin perched on a motorcycle helmet. And all at once Joseph’s breath catches in his throat, pain throbbing in his temples as the hair on the back of his neck stands at end. All at once he’s struck with it, the burden of his prophetic stature, stuck with a simple fact. 

He knows. 

He knows it as well as he knows his own name. As intimately as he knows his own heartbeat. Knows it as certainly as he knows the collapse will come. Knows it as deeply as he knows the Voice. He knows it as well as he knows his own word; the prophecy and truths that he speaks. 

He knows. 

She is the Lamb.

The one who will open the first seal, the harbinger of doom, the beginning of the end. Unwittingly or not, in rebellion or in ignorance, she will be the one to bring forth the collapse. He’s felt it, the tension, the build, creeping towards the edge with every passing moment and it’s because the Lamb has arrived. They’re truly nearing the end. 

From between the ears of her helmet, her dark eyes watch everyone with intensity, flickering like a cat prepared to run or fight should anyone draw too close. Her gaze lands on him and his family; a dark brow raising, as if to question their presence on their property standing before their church. 

It has been said that over time, one stops seeing new people, seeing instead patchwork of those they’ve met before. Traits and details becoming echoes of the first person to show them. And as the Lamb stands before him; Joseph finds himself piecing her together through comparisons. 

The way her short dark hair falls across half her face only to be pushed back, reminds him of a love he lost long ago. There’s something in the eyes, as she meets his gaze, head held straight. Memories of a young Jacob standing up for him; the unbreakable will and fire always burnishing behind his eyes, an unspoken strength. She holds that same strength, but much like Faith it hides behind a soft face and a short build, just shy of being the height of his shoulder. When her gaze lands on Layla, the way the side of her mouth quirks up, the raise of her eyebrow; mischief and confidence radiating off of the expression, brings back memories of John using his silver tongue to get them out of trouble. He knows people, can read their hearts; she’s a soldier, a survivor. Someone needing a purpose, not yet aware that she already has one. 

It is easy to blame the Lamb for their role, for opening the seals and beginning the end. But the Lamb works in the place of the Lord, whether they know it or not, they’re the hands through which he acts. Setting forth the Collapse is not an act of malice on the part of their Creator. That first seal must be opened and someone must do it; it’s what must happen for those chosen to reach New Eden. Whether she will do it aligned with them and understanding of her role or not remains to be seen. She is chosen as well, a special soul given the gift of purpose, what she does with her gift is another matter entirely. 

“I’m done waiting, Layla, jacket,” The Lamb speaks, holding her hand out to Layla. The out of place leather jacket clearly meant to drape across her shoulders instead of the flock member’s. He watches the muscles beneath her shirt shift, pulling tighter over her biceps as she impatiently waits.

“You should have come inside, the time would have flown by,” Layla tells her. 

“Nah, in my experience sermons last even longer when you actually have to listen to ‘em,” her deep brown eyes flicker to Joseph, “no offense.”

“None taken, I’m Joseph Seed,” he extends his hand to her and she slowly takes it, as if he may strike her, her hand is scarred and calloused, a rough burn across her palm. 

“Nice to meet ya, I, uh, recognize you from the giant fuckin’ statue.” 

“Isn’t it lovely, you can feel his love spreading across the land,” Faith speaks up, the statue her doing, “it’s nice to see you again.” 

For the first time, The Lamb drops her gaze, red flushing across her tawny cheeks. 

“You know her, Faith?” 

“We saw each other briefly, a week or so ago, she reached out for me.” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m like real fuckin’ sorry about that,” she scratches the back of her head, “I, uh, thought you were someone else…” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah…” She stares at her feet, fiddling with her uniform shirt, a lie. 

“Well, I’m not sure who you thought I was, but I’m Faith.” 

“Nice to meet ya, for real. And…sorry again.” 

“While we're making introductions, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m John Seed,” the youngest Seed brother steals her attention, sticking a hand out for her to shake. His lawyer smile bright and wide, more Duncan than Seed in the moment. 

“Uh,” she reluctantly shakes his hand, “likewise I guess…” 

“We’re always happy to meet one of this county’s finest.” 

Jacob scoffs and rolls his eyes, the least tolerant of John’s chameleon-like behavior, knowing full well that just a week ago John was complaining about the police force for arresting Theodore and Nathaniel. This exact officer doing so, according to the former.

“’preciate it, but uh, if the introductions are done,” she tells him as she drops his hand, she’s not phased or charmed, refocusing on Layla again, “I’m actually kinda in a hurry, so if I could just get my jacket back, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Layla, are you holding her jacket hostage?” He casts a soft gaze towards Layla, no malice, it’s nothing significant and despite The Lamb’s insistence on getting it back. She doesn’t appear angry, just…on edge. Layla shrinks, like a scolded child. 

“Maybe…I just wanted her to meet you.” 

“A noble cause, my child,” he squeezes her shoulder, “but we’ve inconvenienced her enough.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” 

Layla pulls the leather jacket from her shoulders and hands it to Joseph, head ducked down. He offers it back to The Lamb with a gentle smile, a gesture she returns with hesitance, the expression not quite reaching her eyes as she takes her jacket from him.

“Thanks…” She pulls it on, despite being a little large on the small woman, it suits her. 

“This Friday, we’re having a barbecue following our service, it’s open to everyone, if you’d like to come.” 

“While I definitely, totally, would if I could, but I work Fridays so….,” she shrugs her shoulders, “I’ll just get out of your hair, now.” 

And she’s off, a quick hand wave as she rushes out of the gates, eager to get away from them and the church. Hopefully, his words will reach her and she’ll find the path before it’s too late. Her role as Lamb has marked her worth, her importance, the significance of her salvation. 

Dahlia slams her trailer door shut behind her, scrubbing her hands over her face. She feels dirty, gross and vile. Religious people do that to her, make her feel like something is wrong with her. They’re pure and she’s filthy. Meeting them, The Seeds was even more off putting than she expected. They’re not bad people; at least she can’t make that sort of judgment off of a five minute interaction. But, they’re off. From John’s businessman smile that didn’t meet his eyes to Joseph’s intense gaze that cut through to her soul. They hardly felt human. Though, if they weren’t off, she can’t say she’d feel any different, given her hatred of religion. 

She hasn’t ventured to step foot in the church in Falls End and hasn’t talked to the pastor there either; a streak she plans to maintain. Unless they need her out there as a cop, she’s not spending casual time there. Even free food isn’t enough to tempt her into spending time at church. She takes a shower, watches tv with a lackluster microwave meal as dinner and tries not to think about that family for the rest of the night. 

The Seeds are already close to a distant memory as she works the next day; stuck as a desk jockey to her misery. Filling out paperwork for hunting violations; that and traffic violations are the biggest crimes of Hope County. She understands the importance of protecting the environment and the animals but does the paperwork for it feels like fucking overkill. Her hands are cramping from typing and signing shit, all because a bunch of idiots decided to go hunting bucks out of season. 

Something pings off her skull, a crumpled piece of paper falling to her desk after hitting her. She glares at Pratt who’s smirking like the little shit he is. She throws it right back, pelting his cheek when he turns away. He rips another piece of paper from a notebook, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it at her face only for her to bat it back at him. Then she rips a piece of paper out of her own notebook and throws it at Pratt’s dumb face. 

She hits Pratt in the nose with one; it falls and adds to the pile of paper balls that’s built around them, when the door opens. Nancy, the dispatcher and secretary for all intents and purposes, popping her head in. 

“Deputy Hale,” she speaks softly to catch her attention, “there’s someone here to see you.” 

“Me?” 

Dahlia looks over to Pratt as if he knows something but he just shrugs. She clambers up from her chair, double checking that her uniform is in order for utmost professionalism as she leaves the bullpen office; Pratt following in tow whether from curiosity or boredom she’s not sure. 

In the lobby is Layla from the other night, flashing a bright smile Dahlia’s way when she emerges. She’s holding a Tupperware container and the young deputy can’t help raising an eyebrow; what is going on here?

“Deputy Hale!” 

“Hey, is something wrong?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Layla shakes her head emphatically, “I thought I’d bring you something to eat.” 

She thrusts the Tupperware container out at Dahlia who reluctantly takes it, brushing across Layla’s hands and feeling the warmth of the food. 

“Why?” 

Pratt elbows her in the ribs when she asks the questions mouthing the words ‘don’t be rude’ at her when she looks at him incredulously. It’s a genuine question, why the fuck would Layla bring her food? Not that she’s complaining, it’s just weird.

“Well, you don’t cook right?” she notes Dahlia’s confusion, “your grocery bags last night were full of microwave meals or packaged crap, I figured you could use some decent food. As thanks, for helping me.” 

“Uh, yeah cooking isn’t…a huge priority for me.” 

“Her lunches are usually energy drinks and zingers,” Pratt cuts in, literally no one needs that information, so she elbows him in the ribs right back. 

“That’s not good, Deputy, you should take care of yourself…eating garbage, smoking, you should be more concerned with your health.” 

“I appreciate your concern, but if your meals come with lecture, I’m gonna pass,” Dahlia tries to push the container of food back into Layla’s hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you…I think you should really reconsider coming to our barbecue Friday.” 

“Not happening.” 

“I’m sure, if you gave our church a chance-”

“Layla, I said no and I meant it.” 

“But-“ 

“No buts,” Dahlia puts the food down on the counter, “I know you mean well, but you need to back off.” 

With that Dahlia marches back into the office; heat simmering beneath her skin. It stings at the back of her eyes, claws and burns it’s way up her throat. She runs her hand down her face, raking her nails down the skin harder than necessary as if she could carve out her anger as if the red lines could free that feeling, release it from her body. 

Stripes for the backs of fools, they are to the soul what healing blood is to a wound, for the Lord disciplines the one he loves. 

She kicks her desk, the voice reverberating in her skull isn’t her own and she wishes nothing more than to carve her own head open, to cut his voice and memory out like a cancer. 

“The fuck was that about?” Pratt asks as he comes into the office, nearly making Dahlia jump out of her skin. He’s carrying the Tupperware container of food, raising an eyebrow at her as if she’s grown a second head. 

“I helped her out last night, some dude was harassing her, I had to wait outside a church for hours and now they’re trying to drag me to some fuckin’ barbecue.” 

“And you reacted like a lunatic, because?” 

“’Cause I don’t like being harassed into religious shit.” 

“Eden’s Gate invites everyone to their little barbecues,” Pratt shrugs, “it's not a big deal, just some free food.” 

“If I say no the first time, no the second time, no the third time; don’t ask me a fourth time. It’s not that fuckin’ complicated.” 

Dahlia plops herself down in her chair, kicking at her desk again as she does so, as if it’s to blame for the mess in her head. 

“Eh,” Pratt shrugs, “they don’t mean anything by it, not really.”

“I don’t like it,” she says again with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose, why can’t people just accept she doesn’t like this. Why is she in the wrong for not wanting to be badgered?

“You’re...surprisingly sensitive, you know that?”

“Piss off, I’m not sensitive.”

“You kinda sorta are. Bail on the F.A.N.G Center ‘cause it’s too noisy, avoid bars, avoid barbecues, hate church. Do you even like being around people at all?”

“Sometimes, it just depends….like what’s going on, how many sounds there are... and stuff.”

“So, you’re sensitive.”

“Well, doesn’t it bug you! It’s manipulation, food and barbecues to trick you into a false sense of security, then bam, you’re dealing with an eight hour lecture on how god ruins your life ‘cause he loves you or some shit.”

“And...we give people coffee before interrogations and then bam, they’re in a cell. We’re not any better. Everyone is at least a little manipulative, it’s just life, why is it any worse when christians do it?”

“It’s not, I just, I just don’t like church, okay? Can we drop this?”

“Okay, okay, but if you don’t want the food…”

“Keep it, my appetites gone, just give some to Petunia.”

He rolls his eyes but, when he thinks she’s not looking he goes out back. Pratt can say what he wants but he has just a big soft spot for that opossum. The day continues with desk work; Whitehorse scolding them for the paper mess when he sees it. Hudson calls them children and honestly, they kind of are. She’s not sure why Pratt brings out that immature gremlin part of her, but at least it’s fun.

“You know, this is your fault,” Dahlia tells Pratt as she’s picking up crumpled paper and tossing it in the trash can. Whitehorse said their better not be any paper on the floor by the time they clock out. It’s getting very close to that time; Dahlia having procrastinated the clean up and, well, Pratt is still leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got a care.

“According to you, everything’s my fault.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s true.”

“How you figure?”

“You threw the first paperwad at me.”

“You didn’t have to throw one back.”

“You didn’t have to throw one in the first place!”

“That’s besides the point.”

“It’s literally the entire point.”

Another crumpled piece of paper rattles off her skull, plopping down to the pile. She glares up at Pratt who’s smirking like he’s the funniest person in the world. Everyone keeps telling her how Whitehorse is soft and easy on her, which may be true, she has no doubt that being sent their way by Lloyd has made the sheriff more fond of her. But, she can’t expect that to keep her safe from reprimand. She’s still on probationary hire and has to try to be on her best behavior at least some of the time.

“Pratt, you’re in more danger of getting your ass reamed than her, so you should probably watch it,” Hudson pipes up, checking her phone as they get closer to quitting time.

“No ones getting reamed, it’s paper, for fucks sake.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t make you stay back to clean it up.”

“Eh, sounds like a job for a probie,” Pratt tells Hudson, before throwing a paper ball at Dahlia’s head. She chews her lip and adds to it; that’s a thought, Pratt getting stuck behind on clean up. She may be short, but she’s fast… Dahlia watches the time as she keeps throwing paper balls into the otherwise empty trash can.

“You’re just being an ass now,” Hudson tells him as they near the final minute of their shift. Dahlia standing up with a now filled trash can.

“Hey, Pratt,” Dahlia catches his attention, “got ya a hat.”

She promptly plops the trashcan on his head , paper falling down on him and slaps the side of it for equal measure.

“Fuckin’ hell!” He yells as she darts off, his problem now.

“Bye Hudson!” She calls out behind her as she rushes to clock out and leave the station, hyena cackling as she goes. The image of him with that trash can on his head, god she hoped Hudson managed to take a photo for her.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her stomach from laughing as she jumps onto her motorcycle. A peaceful ride back to the trailer park, the wind whipping past her and music rattling inside of her helmet.

Then she sees her.

Faith looks so completely out of place in front of the rundown trailer park, long white dress fluttering in the breeze as she balances on a rock near the entrance. Un-fucking-relentless. Her green eyes spark alight when she sees Dahlia pulling up on her motorcycle, waving her direction. Dahlia rides right past her, if she pretends she didn’t see her, it’s fine. She locks up her bike and makes a beeline for her trailer door.

Just as she’s closed it behind her, intent on avoiding the pushy little church mouse, a knock rings out. She can’t exactly say she’s not home, can she? The young deputy opens the door a crack, Faith standing on her porch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling when she sees Dahlia’s face poking through.

“Deputy.”

“I already told Layla off for this pushy crap, I ain’t in the mood for preaching.”

“I just wanted to chat, is that so wrong?” Faith asks as Dahlia pushes the door open just a hair more.

“Does this chat involve trying to get me into church?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t had it yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty, but,” she glances down seeing Faith’s bare feet, “are you not wearing shoes?”

“Uh...no.”

“Are you stupid?” Dahlia asks, finally opening the door fully.

“That’s rude.”

“There are needles on the ground, dumbass, needles.”

“So, walk with me and make sure I don’t get hurt.”

“Y’all really like taking advantage of my kindness, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to walk with me?” She pouts and bats her eyelashes up at Dahlia.

“Come on,” Dahlia tells her as she leaves, “let's get this over with.”

“Are you always so negative?”

“Life tends to do that.”

Faith walks alongside Dahlia as they leave the trailer park; watching carefully as the woman walks, to ensure she doesn’t step on anything dangerous. Not that the church mouse seems to have any concern about the issue, nearly floating along as if she’s meant to be there.

“It does, your life has worn on you a lot, hasn’t it?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you?”

“I expected to be waiting on you for longer…”

“Why?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as Faith balances across stones in the field around the trailer park. 

The white clad woman starts to wobble, sticking her arms out to balance herself from the misstep, and Dahlia instinctively sticks her own hand out to catch her. Their hands catch each other, skin brushing together. Dahlia bristles and tries to pull away, the warmth of someone else’s skin jolting her, but Faith intertwines their fingers before she can avoid the touch. 

Faith’s hand is slimmer than her own, but the fingers slightly longer, more elegant. The skin softer and nicer than Dahlia’s too, smooth without calluses or scars.

“Everyone knows the deputies go to the bar after work; the one in Falls End, I assumed you’d be with them.”

“I can’t drink, legally, yet.”

“So, you can’t be there without drinking? Don’t they invite you?”

“No one wants to take a teetotaler to a bar.”

“That sounds lonely, do you have friends in the trailer park?”

The sky's alight with stars, dotting the black blanket of night. A chill in the air hangs through as the night settles in, goosebumps prickling up at the places her skin shows. She wanders how Faith stands it, in her thin white dress. Her eyes cast down at the woman and she realizes how truly thin the dress is; the soft pink of nipples just showing through. Someone should buy Faith a coat…and shoes…

“Not really a cop friendly place, pretty sure they’d rather hang me than be my friend,” Dahlia looks back to the sky, ignoring her discovery to try and find Andromeda.

“Do you have family nearby? You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m not close with my family and uh, from Louisiana.” That’s all the information she offers, not comfortable spilling her life story to some stranger, even a soft handed stranger with pretty eyes.

“So, you’re all alone.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

“Layla said she was worried about you, you’re alone and don’t even take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, uh, I think you all worry a bit too much about me.”

“It can be hard, accepting kindness when you’re so used to cruelty,” Faith pivots to face Dahlia and captures her other hand, intertwining the fingers there as well, “we become accustomed to the pain, thinking it’s what we deserve. So, when we are shown love, it feels wrong, unnatural, it scares us so we avoid it.”

“Are we done with this conversation? I wanna be done with this conversation.”

Dahlia yanks her hands from Faith’s, the intensity of her words and her gaze eating away at the deputy. But Faith yelps, the sudden move knocking off her balance from the little stone ledge she’s been walking along. Dahlia jumps up the ledge and recaptures one of Faith’s hands and wraps an arm around the woman’s waist, to catch her further. 

They stare at each other for a moment, soft green eyes looking up at her, they’re pressed close together in this position. The warmth of the youngest Seed’s siblings body pressing against her, nearly every inch of their bodies together. Faith feels so delicate, lithe and fragile in her arms. Breath fanning across each other’s faces, the tiniest of spaces having stopped them from an accidental kiss. Any passerby might think they were dancing and Dahlia had dipped Faith. 

A little...awkward, but at least Faith didn’t go tumbling back onto rocks. Pink colors the apples of Faith’s cheeks, faint across her delicate cheeks.

“You okay?” Dahlia asks, maybe the cold is stinging Faith’s skin or she was flustered from the slip?

“Just fine, thank you,” Faith says as Dahlia steps back, gently guiding Faith off the little ledge, back safely on the ground. The deputy’s eyes find the expanses of Faith’s arms, scars catching the moonlight. A chemical formula seemingly carved into one arm; each covered in track marks. Faith fiddles with a dirty blond lock of hair, focusing her gaze on the ground. 

“Are we done, now?”

“I know you’re busy and I know you’re reluctant, but even if it seems like there’s no place for you anywhere, there’s always a place for you with us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll leave you for now, then. I hope to see you soon.”

“Good night, Church Mouse, be safe.”

They part ways, Dahlia making her way back to the trailer park. She has no true desire to deal with Faith or Eden’s Gate, but she seemed less pushy at the very least. Though the conversation wasn’t anymore fun. Layla’s conversation left her nearly foaming at the mouth. Faith’s has left her wanting to find the nearest hole and bury herself in it. Yes, Dahlia is a lonely piece of shit, thank you so much for pointing it out church mouse.

She closes her trailer door behind her, more aware than ever that her trailer is empty. No one to greet her, no one to talk to. No friends to spend her nights with, no family to call or do anything with. Lloyd and Caroline are people she cares about, certainly, but she’s not their kid. She was a two-year charity case.

After a shower, Dahlia lands on the couch, watching tv again. When she thinks of it, she hasn’t slept much in her bed since moving in here. Spending most of her free time in the trailer on the couch; falling asleep watching tv, listening to music, or reading horror manga on her phone. 

Dahlia tried the first night, the large bed the trailer came with clearly meant to accommodate a potential couple. She’s not sure how to distinguish bed sizes; if it’s a double, a king, a queen, whatever. But she knows every bed she’s ever slept in before, aside from a few early childhood nights of crawling into her mother and dad’s bed, she’s been in one meant for just a single person. Her childhood bed, her bed at Lloyd and Caroline’s, or she’s been without a bed entirely. Sleeping in her share of closets, on benches, on the floor, etc. She can sleep on a park bench or in the bayou muck, but not in too large of a bed. It makes absolutely no sense, but she’s use to being a cluster fuck of a human being. 

She smokes a cigarette, easing her nerves, trying not to think about her conversation with Faith. The loneliness that keeps seeping into her chest and following her wherever she goes. She’s long ago accepted that it’s a part of her life now, a part of her, and no one else is to blame. There’s no place or group of people that will erase. 

People, groups, like Eden’s Gate like to tell people they have the cure. That panacea to fix every trouble someone may have. They give pretty smiles and tell people that with a little bit of faith they’ll find a place where they belong. That following their ways eases that ache, makes everything okay. 

But, it’s not true. Not for her at least. God never made her feel more at ease, more at peace, there’s no god strong enough to ease the ache of loneliness. Nothing on the outside can fix what’s wrong with her inside. She can sing hymns and praise the man in the sky until she’s blue in the face, but it will never make her happy. 

If anything, the idea of god just pisses her off more. 

Someone who is supposed to hold all the power, who knows each of his creations intimately, yet doesn’t give enough of a shit to save them. This supposed god watched and knew her suffering, knew everyone’s suffering, and didn’t care. Hell, even the bible makes it clear god is a dick. 

Why the fuck should she praise him? 

If he were real, she’d punch him. 

Eden’s Gate likely means well; she knows that. They think they’re doing the right thing, saving her soul. All strong religious types think that way; they tell you you’re going to burn in hell as a helpful warning like letting you know your shoe is untied, they just don’t want you to get hurt. 

If hell is real…eternal damnation is worth it to piss off god. 

She staggers up and out of bed, the bed she doesn’t sleep in, something itches at the back of her throat. Dahlia doesn’t question it, she moves, something is climbing up her esophagus. Rough and tearing up the tender flesh. Metallic taste of blood clings to her taste buds, cloying and noxious as she runs down the hallway towards her bathroom. The fluorescent light of it is like a beacon in the twilight hours. She doesn’t remember her hallways being this long, but with the urgency of something tearing her throat open from the inside, she doesn’t question it.

Dahlia reaches her bathroom and grabs the sides of the sink, nails digging into white porcelain, the strength of her hold is the only thing keeping her grounded. She coughs and gags, spattering blood across it, staining the white. Her breath staggers and stalls unable to break past what’s clogging her throat, ripping it apart. Blood and bile coating her tongue as she tries to get it out.

She coughs and hacks to no avail, only more blood for her troubles as it carves away at her throat. Dahlia shoves her fingers into her mouth, pushing further into her throat, trying to get a hold of whatever it is, to pry it out.

Then she gags and it all comes out; full white blossoms tinged pink with her blood fall into the sink. She spits out soft stained petals and dark green leaves. The flowers from the field by the trailer park, that were outside the church, that she saw when she first saw visions of Faith. She thinks she’s free, the flowers free from her throat. When her stomach churns again, gagging and coughing as fresh blossoms burst forwards from her throat. Each one cutting off her air for a nauseating moment before she can force it out. Again and again, blood stained flowers fall from her mouth. Her vision swims as white flowers float in a puddle of blood within her sink.

**_Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong._ **

She falls to her knees, clutching at the base of her throat as she vomits again, blood and flowers splattering on her thighs. Dahlia gasps and takes in a desperate breath, throat raw and aching. Blood coating her teeth and tongue, syrupy and metallic, a petal stuck to her lips as she gasps. A soft sputtering cough sends blood spittle into her hands.

**_Is it over?_ **

A tickle itches at the back of her raw and stinging throat, her stomach feels bloated with expanding and blossoming flowers ready to climb up her tender airway. She retches into her hand, bloody petals coating and clinging to her hand as she struggles to puke the rest up, blood dripping down her wrist in heavy drops.

Somewhere a woman laughs, the sound echoing in the bathroom, surrounding her. Mocking her pain or celebrating it; she can’t be certain. 

Dahlia wakes up with a jolt, a cold sweat clinging to her skin as she gags and coughs, the phantom sensation of flowers in her throat. She sits on the edge of the catch, sputtering to catch her breath. Nothing is in her throat, the dream was ridiculous, vomiting flowers. But it felt real and her throat aches deeply. She rubs at the back of her neck, waiting for her heart to stop rabbiting in her chest, for the tension in her muscles to fade. 

She stands from the couch and takes the short walk to her bathroom, legs wobbling as she moves. The pure clear white of her sink is a stark contrast to the red stained one, filled with flowers, in her nightmare. There’s still a tickle in her throat, a faint metallic tang of blood on her tongue; echoes of her nightmare. The faint sound of laughter still resonates in her skull as she scrubs water over her face, as if she could wash the nightmare from her mind. 


	6. Burnt Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, given that the last chapter was kind of short, at least by my standards. I decided to go ahead and post the next chapter this month. We're starting to near the point where what I post and where I'm at in writing are meeting up, I have chapter 7 done and am currently about halfway through writing 8, so don't be shocked if we end up with a slowdown in chapters like what's had to happen with my other fic series. It just happens, such is life. 
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Blood, Domestic Violence, Alcoholism, POV Switches, Talks of The Testicle Festival

The cruiser door shuts with a heavy thud, followed by Rook’s boots hitting the asphalt. Staci stifles a laugh, the newest addition to the Sheriff’s Department has a pea sized bladder and a penchant for guzzling energy drinks like an idiot. He’s had to pull into the Golden Valley Gas Station for her to run off to the bathroom, again.

His joints pop and crack as he gets out of the car, taking the chance to stretch his legs. The sun hangs high and bright in the great blue sky, warming his skin as rolls his shoulders to get out the kinks. It’s nearly noon and if he has to be here, he might as well find something to eat, the door of the gas station chiming as he walks in. He looks over the hot food options, garbage mostly, but tasty garbage. Hamburgers, pizza, hot dogs-

“You getting lunch?”

Staci jumps at the sudden question, a voice over his shoulder that he wasn’t ready for catches him off guard. A soft laugh as he turns to look at Rook who’s just scared him, sometimes she’s like a bull in a china shop and other times she’s silent as the grave. He can’t keep up and ends up glaring at the smirking woman. She finds way too much enjoyment in his misery, she’s the probie, he’s supposed to be giving her shit not the other way around.

“Someone needs to put a fuckin’ bell on you, I swear.”

“I thought you could ‘hear me coming a mile away’,” she says trying to imitate his voice when he mocked her earlier.

“That was then, this is now, and right now, you’re a sneaky bitch.”

He can’t resist the chance to wipe that dumb little smirk off her face and grabs her cheek between his fingers, stretching the soft tan skin. A small sharp pain in his wrist when she smacks him away, but it’s more than worth it to see her looking a little less cocky.

“Bite me.” She says and knocks against his side as she grabs a hamburger, nearly throwing him off balance.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Ew.” Rook grimaces at his little attempt at flirting, like an asshole. Then again, with her, she may not realize he was trying to flirt.

He grabs himself one and follows after her to the drinks, he watches her line of vision immediately go to the large sized slushie cups. They’re nearly the size of the short deputy’s head.

“No,” he tells her, voice low with warning, he already has to worry about pulling over for her constantly.

“What?”

“You drink that and you’re gonna be needing twelve more bathroom trips before our shift ends.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You nearly pissed yourself, five minutes ago.”

“I’ll be fine.” Rook rolls her eyes as she fills up the giant cup with blue slush. No matter what he says, he swears she’d break her neck just to do the opposite.

They buy their lunches, if it can even be called that, and leave the gas station. The weather’s too nice to eat in the cruiser, a soft breeze and a clear sky to eat under instead. Staci instead sits on the trunk of the car, balancing his drink on his thigh as he eats. Rook follows his lead, for once since she’s been here, and sits down on the car as well. She pulls one of her legs up onto the car and under her, keeping her drink in hand.

It’s quiet as they eat, but unlike the awkward still of when they first started patrolling together, this silence is surprisingly pleasant. Staci has never liked quiet, making those first patrols painful to sit through, but their time spent in silence has grown more bearable with every shift.

Rook is weird, but not bad; he’s decided. She’s quiet and serious, especially so at the start. But, she never misses a chance to talk back or give him hell, which might be his own fault. She’s dedicated to the job and never seems to shy away from what it entails, only ever seeming bothered by the work when she was stuck pushing papers. Despite her constant scowling and resting bitch face, Rook is eager to help people.

He doesn’t know much about her, which is only natural with her short time with the department and her lackluster communicative skills. She likes her job, Hudson, animals, and giving him hell. She hates crowds, churches, and talking. That’s about all he’s got. And dress codes he guesses? Though since the Drubman incident she’s stuck with modest tanks and tees under her uniform, other than buttoning it up, it’s the same damn thing. Hell, even Hudson and him don’t button it up all the way. 

When she was first hired, the week separating her hire and her actual first day, he asked Whitehorse what he was thinking when he hired someone so young. The sheriff just laughed, saying she had a good heart. He supposes her jumping to help Mary May the day of her interview was proof of that.

There are a lot of reasons why people become cops, not all of them necessarily good or right. Staci himself is exhibit A of that. He’s always been honest with himself and others that he became a cop to get laid, it was nothing short of a whim. Something women are attracted to and didn’t require too much education, so he could avoid debt. No ideas of helping people or delusions of keeping the peace; he chose his career based entirely on the prospect of getting his dick wet.

Hudson is better than him in that regard, well, in many regards but that’s beside the point. But, her choice mostly stems from her family. Almost everyone in her family has had a career in either the military or law enforcement. Her mom is a veteran and her dad a veteran turned police officer, retiring early due to injury. One of her brothers works as an officer in Billings and the other currently in basic training. It only seemed natural she’d follow one of those paths, becoming a cop because it’s what they do in her family. A fact she’s always taken pride in. 

Danny, not to speak ill of the dead, was probably a hall monitor in high school. He was a stickler for details and rules, he enjoyed being the one enforcing order. But Staci isn’t confident that Danny enjoyed it because he believed in what was best for the public so much as he liked rules for the sake of rules and being the one to crack the whip. It’s strange to say after so many years of butting heads, but Staci misses that asshole. It hit Joey hardest, Danny being her partner, but it hit him too. Danny was with the station since before him or Joey were hired on, for him to just be gone one day… Hope County is a sleepy little place, it can be easy to forget how dangerous this kind of job can be when speeding and hunting violations are the biggest crimes. Danny was a grim reminder and hopefully, the last one Staci will ever get.

“That’s gonna fall,” Rook’s voice cuts through the quiet, her finger pointed at the drink balanced on Staci’s thigh.

“It’s fine,” he dismisses her out of hand, and she rolls her eyes, sunlight making the brown look nearly gold. 

She’s cute, it’s something he’s had to admit, as much as he’d rather not. While he’s always been a bit of a womanizer, it still feels weird acknowledging he’s attracted to his newly acquired pain in the ass. But…Rook is real easy on the eyes. Even with her constant sourpuss of a face, she's cute. Though the rare times he’s seen her smile… It’s a good look on her. Hell, it's a good enough look that he asked her out on an impromptu date to the F.A.N.G Center the moment he saw it. Though that ended up being botched; the Junior Deputy inviting Joey along and then abandoning them partway through the day.

He’s gotten to spend hardly any time with her outside of work, between that and her never tagging along to The Spread Eagle, a part of him has to wonder if she just doesn’t want to deal with him when she doesn’t have to. God knows, it’s not Hudson, he’s pretty sure Rook would break her neck to spend more time with Joey.

Staci’s mind is drawn back to Rook’s dismissal of his mild flirting, she seemed uncomfortable with Adelaide’s more…forward tendencies too. But there’s no denying she has a huge annoying crush on Joey. Her face going redder than a lobster anytime the two are near each other. He’s asking her on dates without even meaning to and he’s not even sure what way she swings.

“So, what’s your deal?” He decides to just ask, it might be a long shot, but no harm in seeing if he has a chance. Right?

“My deal with what?” She raises an eyebrow and takes another slurp of her drink.

“Well, I know you’re into women; so are you gay?” Rook chokes on her slushie, blue dribbling down her chin as he continues, “Bi? Pan?” 

“What the fuck, dude?!” She yells, scrubbing her slushie covered hand against her jeans, her blue stained tongue catching his eye as she freaks out.

“It’s just a question.”

“A real fuckin’ personal one.” Her face is a vivid red, making her blue chin and tongue stand out even brighter.

“What? You worried ‘cause, ya know, Montana?”

“No, I’m not worried because of that.”

“Good, because I promise you most people here don’t give a fuck.”

“No, it’s not, I just don’t like talking…”

“You can honestly stop that sentence right there.”

“Pff,” she lets out a soft laugh and the corner of her mouth curves up as she says in a gentler voice, “I don’t like talking.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He gives her the out and she groans.

“Look, dude, not that it’s any of your business but I barely know what the fuck’s going on in my own head. If I can’t figure that shit out, how the hell am I supposed to explain it?”

“I know you like Hudson.”

“Yeah, I do… I can’t say I’m not attracted to men? I don’t think, I’ve thought men are attractive. I just, women catch my eye more,” she shrugs, face still red, “though I don’t know if that’s because of me or ‘cause of the….selection here.”

“What do you mean?”

She glares at him, dark eyebrows furrowed as if she’s trying to figure out if he’s serious while she slurps on her slushie. He can nearly see the gears in her head desperately trying to turn.

“Dude, seriously?” She asks raises an eyebrow when he doesn’t budge.

“Seriously, you make it sound like the men here are drooling apes.”

“Women in Hope County.”

Rook points out a woman stepping out of her car, long tanned legs and daisy duke shorts.

“Men in Hope County.”

She gestures towards a man at the gas pumps, bent over with his jeans half falling off his ass with plumber crack on display for the world.

It’s his turn to choke, pop catching in his windpipe as her sputters and gags on his laugh, leg jerking and sending his entire drink falling into his lap.

“Jesus fuck,” he manages to cough out as cola soaks his crotch.

“Told you it was gonna fall.”

“At least I don’t look like I blew a Smurf.”

“Fuck off.” She roughly shoves him as they both laugh.

“So, all us Hope County men are just too ugly for you?” He says with mock hurt in his voice as he stands from the trunk, walking around the cruiser.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“No, no, I get it, I mean, how could anyone stand to even look at me.”

“What do you want from me?” She’s glaring at him now from over the cruiser, each at their respective doors as they talk.

“Nah, it’s my cross to bear, I have to learn how to deal with being hideous.”

“I mean, we can always get you a paper bag.” Her face breaks into a smile and she starts laughing halfway through her own joke, blue tongue pressing against her canines.

“Wow, fuckin’ wow, just double down.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry,” she rolls her eyes, face still flushed from laughing, “for what it’s worth, you’re one of the more attractive guys in Hope County.”

“Thank you,” Staci can’t help but genuinely smile, between the compliment and her expression, something about the moment settles warm in his chest.

“Which is kinda like being a tall dwarf.”

“Fuck you,” his outburst makes her laugh and he can’t help but laugh right along with her, “you can’t let me have anything can you?”

“Nope.”

They’re still smiling, stomachs and cheeks aching as they climb into the cruiser. He turns the key and starts up the engine, pulling them out of the parking lot. The soft tapping of Rook’s finger against the door is the only sound as they drive through the valley. She’s always moving, he’s not sure he’s ever seen her completely still.

The cola on his jeans has barely started to dry by the time the radio starts to crackle, dispatch putting out a call.

“Units please respond, we have a domestic disturbance at the Ramsey Residence, neighbor reported yelling coming from the home and threats of violence.”

The Ramsey place is about fifteen or twenty minutes out from where Benjamin and Julie live. They’re familiar with the Sheriff’s department. He hates to sound so jaded and cynical, but they’ve done this song and dance so many times. Benjamin has been an abusive drunk since as long as Staci’s lived in Hope County. No matter how many times they cuff and drag him away; Julie refuses to press charges, bails him out, and welcomes him back with open arms. It’s an endless cycle and Hope County doesn’t have the resources to break it. With that in mind, he grabs the receiver.

“Deputy Pratt and Hale responding, over.”

He flips on the sirens, lights flashing and the speaker squealing as they rush towards the Ramsey house. Tires spitting up gravel as he drives along the backroads, following them to the old farmhouse. It was once a beautiful house, he’s sure, but it’s started to fall apart over the years. The white paint peeling and the wood of the porch starting to rot away.

There’s a tension in the air as the deputies get out of the cruiser, grass crushing underfoot as they make their way to the home. Despite being Staci’s subordinate as far as standing in the department goes, Rook is in front of him and taking the lead. Not because he wants her too; she just does that.

The porch lets out a loud creak when the junior deputy takes a step, straining under her weight. That doesn’t bode well for him, while not a particularly heavy guy, he’s over a foot taller than Rook and fit. She may have muscle mass, but he’s sure he still weighs more at the end of the day. 

“You might wanna be careful,” she warns him, standing next to the door, clearly having gone through the same thought process as him.

“Yeah, this porch has seen better days.”

It strains and creaks, echoing a louder under him as he takes the steps up. Then his foot goes through the porch. He curses as he starts to fall through, broken rotted wood splintering into his jeans and boot. A hand wraps around his wrist, Rook steadying him as gets his bearings. He grips the railing as he his rips his foot back out of the wood; breaking and ripping apart boards with the force of it. The smell of mildew, rotted lumber, and muck getting kicked up from it.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He has to shift back onto the steps that were able to hold him, he could step over or around the broken gap, but the chances of it just breaking through again are high. Rook lets go of his wrist once he’s on stable footing and turns back to the door. She knocks on the door three times, before calling out.

“Hope County Sheriff’s department, we got a call, just here to make sure everything’s okay.”

There’s no response, of course they’re in no rush to open the door for police. A beat of silence and then something breaks from inside the home, like glass crashing to the ground.

“You ever deal with them before?” Rook asks as she tries to open the door, but it’s locked.

“Plenty, he always has to be taken kicking and screaming. ” 

“Is he dangerous?” She’s slid a pick into the door lock, twisting and turning it. Why the hell does she know how to pick locks?

“Only to his wife, every time I’ve dealt with him, he’s no worse than a drunk toddler.”

“Hmm,” she nods in understanding, “go around back and see if there’s a back door or something, we can’t take anyone out this way. I’ll head in.”

“Since when do you give the orders, probie?”

“Pratt,” she says his name like a warning, just as the door clicks open. She’s right and he Staci knows that, but that doesn’t mean he has to like being bossed around by the probie he’s supposed to be teaching the ropes.

He waves her off and goes walking around the house, all this trouble and splinters in his shin over some damn drunk who should have been locked away years ago. There’s a set of concrete stairs up to the backdoor, not attached, but sturdier than forty-year-old rotted wood. He shakes the backdoor and finds it’s locked, because of course it is.

Staci slams his shoulder against the door as he hard as he can, putting all of his weight into it. The lock and frame give out from the force, a boom and splintering sound ringing out.

“Fuck!”

It’s Rook’s voice, no mistaking it, a groan of pain punctuating the curse. Staci’s blood runs cold and he runs into the house; feet hitting the floor in heavy thuds as he runs to where he heard the sound. Nearly tripping over himself as he enters the living room.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Staci recognizes two figures instantly as he enters. Ben Ramsey standing over a curled up figure dressed in the familiar green of their uniform, blood is on the carpet, soaking it through.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! What’d he do? What did that son of bitch do to her?

From his angle, Ben’s back to him, Pratt can’t make out anything other than her fallen body. He can’t tell if she’s breathing, if she’s moving, where the blood is coming from, if she’s even alive.

Words stick in his throat and his mind only spins curses, his hand pauses, body frozen. Only a moment in reality, but in eternity to Staci; just enough time for the old drunk to pull his leg back and slam a boot into the young deputy on the ground. A sickening crack and curse from the young woman.

And for the first in his career, Staci pulls his gun out. It may be too quick of a move and maybe in the hours after he’ll think of how he should have gone for the baton or taser, but his hand is on his gun. Pointed at another human being. There’s a shake to his hands.

“Ben Ramsey, you’re under, under arrest! Put your hands up!” His words stall for a moment and he curses himself for the way fear seeps into his voice at the worst times.

“Fuck you-“

His words are cut off by a yell, Ben’s body convulsing for a second before he hits the ground with a heavy thud. Rook taser in hand moving as it happens, quickly cuffing him, and Staci can breathe again. He’s not going back to the station alone. The side of her head is stained with blood, hair matted in it, her left eye shut and that half of her face red. Her nose and lip are busted open, blood streaking down her chin. She’s hurt, but she’s alive. His head is swimming, drops his grip on his weapon, his shoulder aching and making him realize just how tense he was. He’s not even certain his finger was on the trigger, he realizes as he holsters the thankfully unused gun. Her lips move over and over again, but the words don’t cut through the fog of his brain until another moment passes.

“Pratt, radio backup, now!” Her hands are on the man’s cuffed wrists, keeping him in place on the ground, subdued for the moment as the man’s thankfully still dazed from the shock.

He’s hesitated, his delay to grab his radio no doubt wasting precious seconds. Why does he always fucking hesitate? He’s tripping over his words as he talks, because of course he is.

“Officer Pratt, we need backup and, and emergency services to the Ramsey house, immediately. Officer injured, suspect is belligra-belligerent and dangerous.”

“Suspect’s wife is injured as well.”

There’s more than three people in the room, Julie Ramsey curled up in a ball beside the couch, sobbing desperately at the entire scene. He didn’t even notice, fuck, he fucking hell. He gives the exact address and gets confirmation that someone is coming. Staci crouches down, closer to Rook’s level where she’s kneeling next to the suspect, he’s able to get a better look at Rook’s injury. He can smell beer, both from the suspect and from her head, shards of brown glass clinging to the blood-soaked skin. He bashed a beer bottle over her head, then kicked her in the face while she was down.

He needs to get something to hold against her head, to help stop the bleeding. Staci’s starts to move to get his overshirt off, thinking it’d be better than nothing, but then sirens screech at them. Police officers for the station and EMTS coming through the house. It’s going to be okay.

No thanks to him. He did nothing. He wants to pull his hair out, scream at himself, why the hell is he this fucking pathetic?

Ben Ramsey is arrested and charged, taken to one of the officer’s police car. Meanwhile Julie and Rook are assessed before being taken to the back of ambulance. Staci follows them, moving on instinct to follow and make sure Rook is okay.

He doesn’t speak the entire way, just grateful to be allowed in the ambulance, he listens as they access her. Lacerations, contusions, possible skull fracture; the words swim around his head as they look her over in the ambulance. He watches as the EMT forces Rook’s left eye open, seeing why it’s been shut, blood vessels damaged across part of the white, red irritation in the other half that goes into the brown, blurring the edge of the iris.

Ideas of her losing vision in that eye flood through his mind, how severe is the damage, could it impact her career? Is she going to be out of here before she’s even finished probationary hire? He was supposed to be looking out for her.

He sits outside her room at the Hope County Clinic, privacy or some sort of doctor crap, he can barely even remember the rest of the ride there. His back against the wall as he sits on the floor, ringing his hands, mind racing through a million possibilities. 

“What the hell happened?” Whitehorse’s voice is what ends the frenetic mess in his head, if only for a second. The presence of the sheriff easing some of his nerves, knowing the older man will be able to handle this, whatever the situation may be.

He scrambles to his feet and explains everything that happened; from the porch falling in, him pulling his weapon but not firing, and an injured Rook having to subdue the suspect. Each word of it making him feel just a bit more pathetic, a bit weaker, he really fucked this up.

Whitehorse squeezes his shoulder, a warm heavy hand to comfort him.

“It’s okay, Pratt. Everything is gonna be fine, Rook’s made of tougher stuff than this.”

He sighs, unsure of how he feels by the statement. It’s meant to comfort him, and it does some part of him. He wants Rook to be okay, fuck does he need her to be okay. But, Whitehorse’s unwavering faith in her strength, makes him feel all the more pathetic in comparison.

The hospital room door opens, a doctor walking out, looking over at Whitehorse and Staci.

“You can come in now, if you’d like.”

Staci follows behind Whitehorse as they walk into the little clinic room, off white walls and floors greeting them. Rook’s sitting on the side of the white sheeted bed; seeing her cleaned up and moving is instant relief for Staci’s frayed nerves. Her face is bruised, her eye still messed up, but she’s no longer painted red with her own blood. His hands twitch, he realizes he wants to hug her, to pull her close and feel that she’s truly okay. But he can’t find the nerve to do it, unsure of how the young woman would react. 

“So, what’re you dealing with?” Whitehorse asks her and she sighs. 

“Needed some stitches, some glass scratched my cornea so vision in this eye is gonna be a little blurry, but it will heal. Minor skull fracture.” 

“Skull fracture?” Staci can’t help but blurt out, that’s bad, isn’t it? Skulls are kind of important, being the thing that protects your brain. Why the hell is she just shrugging it off?

“It’s not bad, they don’t do anything for it. My head is gonna hurt like hell for a bit,” she shrugs, “if spinal fluid starts coming out my ears and nose, call 911, though I think that’s the rule for everyone.” 

“Alright,” Whitehorse speaks up, “there’s gonna be some paperwork to take care of with your injury and your time off.” 

“I’m not taking time off.” She’s emphatic, shaking her head like the sheriff is ridiculous to even suggest something like that. 

“I’m not sending you out like this, Rookie, you need to worry about healing up.” 

“You want me to take time off, during my probationary hire, that’s ridiculous.” 

“Don’t stress, it’s not going to affect anything, just take two weeks off-” 

“One week, max.” 

“Fine, one week," Whitehorse gives him with a hefty sigh, "just take it easy. And actually take it easy, not doing anything to hurt yourself in the meantime.” 

“Pfff,” she huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes, hopping up from the bed. 

“We’ll go back to the station and take care of the paperwork.” 

Whitehorse puts a hand on Staci’s back; the other on Rook’s as he walks them out the door. Staci feels exhausted as he gets into Whitehorse’s truck with them, someone having taken the cruiser back to the station for them. His body slackening into dead weight as he leans against the door; his nerves are shot to hell and back, he just wants to collapse after everything. She’s okay and that’s what matters most; his own insecurities be damned. 

They arrive at the station; since it’s regarding just her injury and leave, Staci isn’t needed for the paperwork on this one. He instead waits outside, he’s not sure why, but he doesn’t feel ready to just go home yet. It’s after shift and usually he’d be at The Spread Eagle by now, sipping cheap beer and shooting the shit with Joey. 

Speak of the devil, the older deputy is coming down the hall, nearly jogging towards him. And he’s wondering if she’s felt the way he did when he heard something happened to Danny, before they told him about the former deputy’s death. That anxiety of knowing something is wrong but not knowing the details, fear building ideas of what could have happened. 

“What the hell is going on?” 

“Rook got hurt, she’s gonna be okay, but, uh, Whitehorse is giving her the week off.” 

“Thank god,” Joey lets out a sigh of relief, tension noticeably leaving her body, “I thought, jesus, I don’t know what I thought.” 

“Yeah, uh, been a rough day…” 

“How you holding up?” 

“I fucking choked, Joey. The asshole was trying to kick her damn brains in and I choked.” 

“You can’t blame yourself,” she tells him, a faraway look in her eye, “I get it, I do, but you can’t blame anyone but the asshole who hurt her.” 

“It's not just that…” He sighs; is he really going to have this conversation? It feels so damn pathetic. 

“So, what is it?” 

“I...don’t worry about it.” 

“Well, I’m certainly not gonna complain about skipping the feely talks. But, uh, for what it’s worth, hindsight is twenty-twenty. Beating yourself up over what you should have done, what you wish you’d have done, is pointless. You do your best in the moment and it’s all you can do.” 

“I guess…” 

“So...how this affect your little crush on Rook?” She asks after a beat of silence, trying to turn the conversation light-hearted.

“Ugh, don’t call it that. The only crush around here is Rook’s on you.” 

“Yeah, right. You got it bad and we both know it.”

“I might have asked her if she’s gay.”

“Seriously, Pratt?” 

“What,” he says halfway through a laugh, “she always follow you around like a puppy dog, I had to make sure I even had a chance.” 

“Well, do you?” 

“Maybe…if she stops crushing on you.” 

“Eh, that’s nothing, she’ll be over it before you know it.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“The only reason she’s like that with me is ‘cause she thinks I’m pretty, it’s completely superficial, like a little kid.”

“Well, do me a favor and stop being pretty?” 

“No can do, you just gotta sack up and ask her out.” 

“‘Cause the F.A.N.G Center went so well.” 

“Okay, so ask her out and this time, be specific and talk slow.” 

“She’s oblivious, not brain damaged.” 

“Ehhh, debatable.” 

He thinks for a moment, he likes Rook, he does. She’s cute and spending time with her is nice; being able to tease each other has made his job way less mind numbing. Relationships that go beyond the bedroom have never been his forte; it’s honestly been a while since he’s been on an actual date. But, he thinks it could be nice with her. There’s no telling if they’d actually click romantically, that’s not something you find out until you try it. It could be worth a shot. 

But he thinks about today and thinks about the future for a moment, something he’s not fond of doing. Rook is still on probationary hire; who’s to say she’ll be here after the six month period. He doubts Whitehorse will get rid of her, maybe due to her age, he handles her with kid gloves and he’s always been a bit soft as far as sheriffs go anyway. But, it’s always a possibility if she crosses too big of a line or does something unforgivable. 

Hell, she might decide she wants to leave, might realize Hope County is just not the place for her and head back to Louisiana. 

At the moment he just likes her, nothing intense, nothing he can’t deal with losing. If he found out tomorrow she was fired and leaving, he’d be bummed sure, but he’d recover relatively quickly. But if they started dating, if it worked out and one date led to another. If they hit it off, meshed as well as he thinks they could and that ‘like’ grew into something more and then she had to leave... 

“Once her probationary hire is over, I’ll do it,” he says out loud, committing himself to the action in front of Joey. Once that threshold has been crossed, once he has a little more reassurance that he can pursue Rook without fear of her leaving, he’ll go for it. 

“You sure you can hold out that long?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You tell me, Mister asked her out on the first day.” 

“Shut up.” 

Dahlia signs the last of the paperwork, her hand cramping, all of this fuss because someone hit her with a beer bottle. She’s still sick from the idea of having to take off a week, better than two, but she’d rather just do her job. So, her vision in one eye is a little blurry and her head hurts like crazy, big deal. 

“There’s something else to address.” 

“What’s that?” She raises an eyebrow at Whitehorse, let her out of paperwork hell, please. 

“It’s up to you if you want us to press charges against him for assaulting you.” 

“Oh.” 

“If it matters, we’ve dealt with Ben a lot, he’s been beating his wife black and blue for years. But, she’s never willing to press charges and nothing’s been severe enough to bring him up on charges from the state.”

“Let’s do it, then.” She’s not sure how much it will help, without counseling and after care, who knows if the cycle can break. But, if she can get the guy put away, it will at least give her a chance to get out without fear of repercussions. 

There’s some more paperwork associated with that, filling out a statement and the like. But, that’s more than worth it. She finishes it up and is massaging her hand to help alleviate the muscles that are cramping in distress. 

“Also-”

“If I have to sign one more piece of paper, I’m gonna kill you.” She cuts him off and earns a chuckle in response. 

“No, I just wanted to tell you, hell of a job, today.” 

“All I did was get beat up.” 

“You were in a high stress situation and you resolved it as best you could, you subdued him without deadly force, and showed you know how to handle yourself.”

“The standards are low, aren’t they?” 

“You did good, be proud of yourself for a moment,” he tells her, squeezing her shoulder as he passes by. Her heart warms at the gesture, he thinks she did good. Despite being stuck taking a week off, he still thinks she did well. 

Hands in her pockets, she’s grinning as she leaves the office, Hudson and Pratt are just outside; talking about who knows what. They’re usually off drinking right now, but he seemed freaked out about her injury, maybe he’s trying to make sure she’s okay. She’d appreciate it if that were the case. 

“Hey, Rook,” Hudson greets her, bright smile, and Dahlia gives a small nod of her head. Unable to force words out of her throat. 

“Everything taken care of?” 

“Yeah...guess I’ll get to see you guys in a week,” she grumbles, still upset about it. 

“Hey,” Hudson stops her before she can leave, “why don’t you come out to The Spread Eagle with us?” 

“You know I can’t drink, right?” 

“They serve water and pop,” Hudson says, shrugging. 

“Um, okay…” Dahlia scratches sheepishly at the back of her neck, she gets to go out with them, her heart is warm. Between Whitehorse’s praise and being invited out with the other deputies, this is a pretty good night. 

“Is that why you weren’t tagging along with us?” Pratt asks as they start to head towards the door. 

“I didn’t know you wanted me to tag along…” 

“Oh my god, you awkward little disaster.” Pratt ruffles her hair as he insults her and she playfully smacks his side, happy to see him joking around again. 

The neon sign of The Spread Eagle flickers above Dahlia’s head as they walk to the old bar. It’s cheesy and ridiculous the logo of a scantily clad woman with she assumes eagle wings.

> _So, I'm gonna live my life like it's my last damn night._
> 
> _Cause when the clock strikes twelve, we're all gonna go to hell_

The jukebox and lowlight greet them, people spread around drinking at the bar and cozied up over the wooden tables. A little stage in the corner for those nights when they have live music. Behind the bar, Mary May works away at getting people their drinks, honey blonde hair tied up in a bun and her flannel’s sleeves pushed up to her elbows. A window behind her shows a glimmer of the kitchen, an older man with dark hair slaving over the orders.

“You’re late,” Mary May teases Hudson and Pratt as the deputies all grab seats at the bar, Dahlia between the two of them. 

She’s never sat at a bar before and something about it feels decidedly mature to the young officer. That is until she can barely climb up there and unlike her two coworkers, her legs aren’t long enough for her feet to comfortable rest on the ground or even part of the stool. Her legs left to swing like a child’s.

“You can blame the probie for that one.” 

“I’m sorry, I’ll try not to get my ass kicked in the future.” 

“You finally gonna get your round of free drinks, hero?” Mary May asks her, a slight smile on her face and dear god, why must the women in this county be so pretty? The apples of Dahlia’s cheeks are growing warm. 

“‘Fraid I can’t, still got a year before that’s legal,” she says, never mind if it’s maybe a bit closer to a year and three months. 

“Well, a free meal it is then.” 

“No, no, I can’t do that,” She quickly dismisses the idea, local businesses tend to need every dime they can get, she’s not letting Mary May cut herself short just because Dahlia did her job. 

“Seriously, if it weren’t for you, I’d be shut down for the month, it's the least I can do.” 

“Give it up, Rook, she’s not gonna budge,” Pratt tells her. 

“She’s stubborn as a mule,” Hudson warns. 

“You heard them, cowboy, your money’s no good here.” The cowboy nickname is a new one, but Dahlia doesn’t mind it, or the way it makes her smile. 

“Fine, free meal, but I’m tipping.” 

“Okay, okay, I can work with that.” 

Hudson and Pratt get cheap weak beers and Dahlia gets a pop as they look over the food options. Everything makes her stomach growl; desperate for something more than convenience store food or microwave meals. There’s a sign below the window into the kitchen, saying they deliver, she wonders if the trailer park is too far away for it.

She decides to try something she’s never eaten before, a burger with huckleberry barbecue sauce, never having heard of the condiment before. Orders in, she can’t help but look around the room, taking in the decorations. Newspaper clippings beneath a neon blinking sign for Lease Lager, a little flag for Hope County Cougars, and a smaller flyer advertising something she’s seen billboards for all over; the Testicle Festival, advertised with a little screaming cartoon bull.

“The fuck is a Testicle Festival?”

“Pffff,” Pratt laughs and chokes on his beer, pulling it away and licking the beer away from his lips. Hudson cracks a big grin, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold back chuckles.

“I mean, it’s basically exactly what you sound like,” the older woman says, shrugging her shoulders.

“People get together and eat bull balls,” Pratt adds.

“Willingly?”

They both laugh as Dahlia looks at them wide eyed, that’s so fucking gross, why the fuck would someone eat that? She’s never been one to turn her nose up at any meal, but that so disgusting, her stomach churning at the very idea.

“Yeah, it’s a thing, I, don’t know what to tell you.”

“Montana is gross…”

“Oh, shut up, I’m sure they eat gross shit in Louisiana too.”

“Not really,” she shakes her head at Pratt, trying to think of the weirdest food she’s ate, well weird to them, “I mean, I’ve had alligator before.”

“You’ve ate alligator?”

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t think that’s weird?”

“I didn’t eat it’s balls!”

They cackle and laugh at her outburst, she’s joining along before she knows it, face flushing as she cracks up. She barely can remember the ache in her head or the blur in her vision, the more painful moments of the day forgotten as she loses herself in dumb banter and jokes. The burger is incredible, she’d lick the plate clean if she wasn’t in public. Hell, that fact is barely holding her back. She’s not sure how many colas she’s drank her way through, but at some point, her bladder is screaming at her.

“Let me guess, you gotta piss,” Pratt taunts her, reminding her of their little bickering match this evening, she’s an adult she’s allowed to piss.

“Fuck off.” She grabs a grimy fry off the ground andt she drops it down into his beer as she walks by.

She uses the bathroom and washes her hands, catching her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she does so. It’s the first time she’s got a proper look at herself since she was beat up. Stitches over the laceration under her eye, the skin bruised, the white of her eye purple with busted blood vessel with the brown of her eye blurring into it. An absolute mess and she grins.

There’s something fulfilling about getting in a fight, not starting but, making it through one. Having the marks to show it, knowing she held her own. Whether it was fights in school or when she’d fight back against her step-father, no matter how it ended up, she’d feel proud of herself. Whether because she fought back or simply because she survived. The aftermath was nothing more than a badge of honor marking what she went through. She’d take a thousand more stitches and bruises over the week off, if she’s being completely honest. Dahlia leaves the bathroom once her hands dry, shoving them in her pocket as she goes.

> _Oooh, oooh, ooh~_
> 
> _If I told you a lie, you could smile, my love._
> 
> _You’d never understand._

The jukebox hums and Dahlia finds her eyes looking around the room, taking in the faces of the patrons. A shift of a door and the step of boots draws her eyes towards the door. Her breath catches in her throat, what the hell is a Seed doing here?

John Seed, the youngest of the brothers, is walking through the door. All of the siblings make her uncomfortable in some fashion, largely to do with their religiosity, but then they each have their own unique brand of unsettling. John reminds her of a sleazy car salesman, too sharp smiles that don’t reach his eyes. Even when he shook her hand at the church, something about him felt off, like he’s wearing a mask but she can’t quite tell what’s under it.

> _If I told you a tale, you’d cry, my love._
> 
> _You’d never hold my hand._

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mary May yells over the bar, when she sees him.

There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes when he looks at her, not unlike a cat finding a mouse to tear apart. He strides to the bar with purposeful steps and he smirks, but unlike those salesman smiles, it reaches his eyes.

“I just thought I’d check in,” his eyes lazily scan the room, looking at the beer bottles and glasses of whiskey in patron’s hands, “do we really need to have this conversation again?” 

“It’s a bar, the hell you expect me to serve?”

“I expect,” John puts his hand on the bar with a sharp sound, “you to listen to reason and start to understand your position.”

“Is something wrong?” Dahlia’s question escapes her without another thought, everything about John’s body language putting her on edge. 

> _When it all bleeds out, you don’t know.”_
> 
> _When it all bleeds out._

John’s eyes leave Mary May and land on Dahlia, those piercing blue eyes cutting through to her core. He looks her up and down, as if she’s the mouse now. But she doesn’t shrink away or avoid his gaze, unwilling to show any signs of backing down in the face of his intensity. 

> _Wake up, little man._
> 
> _Don’t you break her heart._

“Dep-yoo-tee,” John speaks in a low drawn out way, emphasizing every syllable with the slow drag of his gaze on her.

“Stay out of it, Rook,” Pratt warns her as she walks past him and Hudson at the bar. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, why the fuck would she stay out of it? Supposedly, John already tried to get members of Eden’s Gate to steal Mary May’s alcohol shipment and now he’s showing up to push her around; fuck that shit.

“What the hell is going on here?”

> _Oh c’mon, little man._
> 
> _Don’t you fall apart._

“I was just trying to have a little talk with Mary May, though she’s never been one for civility. More importantly, what happened here?”

He reaches out towards her face and she flinches out of reflex, John’s fingers grazing her bruised cheek before she smacks his hand away. Not sharp enough to truly hurt, but enough to force him away.

> _When the devil’s got you, but only by the hand._

“Hazard of the job and, please, don’t touch me.”

John’s eyebrows furrow, eyes growing dark and face scrunching for a moment in anger before he forces a soft smile. It doesn’t touch the stormy look in his eyes; another little mask hiding whatever’s lurking beneath the surface.

> _Let go, little man._
> 
> _Let go, little man._

“Ah, you poor thing, you” his voice deepens with concern, but it feels more like pity. He fidgets with his sleeves and lets out a sigh, irritation seeping through the false concern. She has to resist the urge to smile, something satisfying in seeing his true emotions bubbling up.

“It is what it is, are you done with your ‘little talk’ now?”

His nostrils flare and he bites his lip, it feels like poking a bear, but she’s having fun with it. He gives another fake smile and she wants to wipe it off his face.

“With Mary May, yes, but I was hoping to speak with you more. Though,” he looks around, “this is hardly an ideal setting. Have you given any more thought to tomorrow?”

“Like, I said before, I have to work,” she says the white lie and dismisses him with a shrug, hopeful it will appease the Gucci wearing gremlin in front of her.

“You know, it’s not often The Father goes to the trouble of inviting someone himself,” he tells her, as if it’s meant to entice her. Instead the title ‘The Father’ just makes her skin crawl, not unlike the title her step-father took on with his own church. As if she needed more reasons to avoid these people.

“What are you talking about, Rook? You got a week off for your injury, remember?” Pratt pipes up and Dahlia’s blood runs cold, why the fuck would he do that to her? Why would he do that? John’s eyes go bright and a sly smile stretches across his face.

“Wonderful, I’ll see you there, dep-yoo-ty, service begins at nine in the morning.” John gives her arm a hard squeeze before he leaves, Dahlia’s skin crawling beneath his touch. Empty air where he once was within the next moment.

> _Yeah, I vow to the moon, yeah, I howl at the wind._
> 
> _I’m bleeding and I can’t stay clean._

She’s expected to come to the service, dear god. The air is punched out of her lungs. Even being outside of a church put her nerves on edge, she’s not sure if she could step foot in one without getting sick. She moves behind Pratt and puts her hand on his shoulders.

“Hey, Rook, what are you-uuck-” Pratt’s words cut off as she moves and wraps her hands on either side around his throat. Not hard enough to genuinely hurt him, but enough to feel it as she shakes him and pretends to wring his neck .

“Why the fuck would you do that?!”

“It was funny,” he defends himself when she lets go and throws herself onto her chair, bringing one foot up into the seat as she leans back. Her body going slack with exasperation, she’s seriously going to have to go church?

“I fucking hate you, I actually fucking hate you.”

“God, you’re dramatic. It’s church, not like I volunteered you for a root canal.”

“I’d rather have the root canal.” She tosses her head back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Pratt doesn’t know her issue with religion, she knows that, so she can’t truly be angry at him. But, fuck, would it have killed him to keep his mouth shut?

“Well, I think I should probably get out of here before Rook kills me,” Pratt says as he pays for his meal and drink, standing up from his seat.

“I’m gonna head home too,” Hudson stands up and ruffles Dahlia’s hair, “cheer up, Rookie.”

Dahlia doesn’t even have the energy to get worked up about Hudson’s touch, peacefully letting the casual touch come and go with a mere blush. Then the two have left and Dahlia is trying to gather the energy to get up, with the looming reality that she’s expected to go to church in the morning, she no longer wants this night to end.

“Deputy,” Mary May says after a moment, baby blues watching Dahlia sigh and rub a hand down her face.

“Hmm?” Dahlia straightens her posture enough to look at Mary May properly, realizing how somber the bartender’s expression and posture really is. The blonde chews her lip, looking away, visibly searching for her words.

“Eden’s Gate has been in this county for a long time, hell, I was in high school when they moved in on us. They started buying places out left and right, they own half the damn county, now.”

“They have that much money?” Dahlia can’t help but ask, aren’t churches relatively low profit ventures, assuming you aren’t selling snake oil or asking people to donate money for Jesus.

“Got that much money, that much power, and they know how to twist the law to suit their needs. They want the entire county and everyone in it under their thumb…”

Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the bar, a far away look in her soft blue eyes. Dahlia puts her hand over Mary May’s, hoping the warmth of her touch can help ease the sting, even if she’s not sure what’s hurting the blonde. It’s enough in the moment, it seems, Mary May looking up at her and giving a soft smile, speaking again after a beat of silence.

“You’re one of the few people around here who’s not rolling over and letting them do whatever the hell they want. I don’t wanna see that change. Just do me a favor, don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”

“Look at me,” Dahlia looks directly into Mary May’s eyes, “I’d rather play jump rope with my own intestines than join a church.”

“Good.”

Mary May is satisfied with that answer, smiling as she’s called away to get someone else a drink. Dahlia’s not sure what the history is there with her and John, but clearly something has happened. Other than the Eden’s Gate members stealing alcohol and Lonny’s asshole behavior, there’s not conclusive evidence that they’ve done anything more than petty theft. John’s opinion on Mary May selling alcohol, supporting that he might ask them to do that. Otherwise, anything else is just bad feelings and hearsay. She wants to trust they’re good people, just staunch in their beliefs and a little strange, always wanting the believe the best of people. But, she’s going to be sure to keep an ear to the ground and stay wary of them, knowing she’s apparently not the only one concerned about their shit.

Dahlia shakes her head and gets out her wallet, getting out enough for the meal and then some, calling it all a tip for the sake of getting past Mary May’s generosity. She puts it down on the bar under her plate, letting the bartender know she’s taking off for the night.

The night air chills her skin as she leaves the bar before she’s caught. She pulls a cigarette out as she loiters outside the bar, leaning back against the building’s porch. Dahlia takes a deep inhale looking off into the distance.

Even in the valley, the statue of Joseph Seed is looming in the distance, the tallest thing in the entire county. There must be light around it, setting the statue aglow at night. She lets out the smoke in her lungs as she’s reminded of the real man. It wasn’t long ago she could barely believe he was a real living person. The statue makes him seem too large, too imposing, too important to be tangible. Meeting him and his family still feels like a fever dream.

Faith is like a living fairy, floating along in a white dress with flowers in her hair. An ethereal being with long dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. Dahlia’s dream or perhaps exhaustion induced hallucinations of chasing after her still making the woman feel like a specter.

John feels like someone pretending to be human or maybe it’s just how out of place he seems in the rustic little county. Dark slicked back hair, designer shades always on top of his head, silk shirts, and tailored vests; he looks like a Ken doll someone drew tattoos on.

The brother who didn’t bother to offer his name cuts possibly the most intimidating figure of them. He seemed larger than life. At least six foot six and wider than a door, dressed in army attire with his ginger hair shaved at the sides. The man could snap her spine in half if he had a half a mind to.

Then there’s Joseph, The Father, goosebumps raise on her skin when she thinks of his title. It’s bias, projections of her trauma that bring up those gross feelings when in reality he’s done nothing to her. His statue is true to his likeness in some ways, dark hair pulled back in a small bun and the full beard that seems standard for all men in Eden’s Gate. But at the end of it all, the statue is a composed sterilized version of the intense man who stood in front of her. The concrete can’t capture the intensity of his blue eyes, the way they cut through her, the way his choice of sunglasses turn them green. His unblinking stare as he stood out in the cold of night, shirtless with ink and scars marring his skin, sweat still sticking to him and strands of hair falling into his face.

But despite the wild appearance, he spoke calmly, he spoke deliberately and with devotion. He’s intense and he’s all encompassing, everything about him is too much, from his stare to the way his touch lingered for a moment more than it should have. His presences like a raging fire that can’t be ignored. 

She has no real reason to dislike him, he’s done nothing cruel, he hasn’t wronged her. But every fiber of her being screams at her to stay away, that he’s everything she doesn’t want near her. A forest fire that her body is urging her to run away, lest she be burned to ashes.

It may be paranoia and experience perverting her feelings; and it may be gut instinct trying to save her. 

But regardless, it seems she’ll be burned alive come morning.


	7. Into The Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so updates slowed down on everything for over a month, because I hit some writers block with like everything. And i didn’t feel like updating while I wasn’t actively creating, I guess. Anywaaaaaay, I started to make some real actual progress on chapter nine of this, so I’m comfy posting chapter seven now. Does that make logical sense, probably not, but this is my blog so fuck it. There’s some parts of this fic I’m worried are gonna come across as OOC cause writing the Seeds pre-reaping is always kind of a minefield. I’m firmly in the John is a whore camp, so, keep that in mind. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy????
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Gore and Body Horror (within a dream), Unrealistic Gore (dream), Being Burnt Alive (Dream), PTSD, Panic Attacks Triggered by PTSD, Mentions and Flashbacks to Child Abuse, Mentions of Domestic Violence, Puking, Walking in on people fucking, Dahl is a grumpy idiot sometimes, Pratt’s a slut, John’s a slut, Hope County is full of fuckboys god save us all

Ropes bind Dahlia’s wrists, biting harshly into the tender skin, chafing and rubbing it raw. Her arms are bent back so her wrists meet behind a stake, securing her in place. Dry brush and wood are beneath her bare feet, people are around her, but she can tell who they are. Their faces shrouded in darkness, but their eyes are trained on her. Everything is dark, just shapes in the void. No moon or star hanging in the night sky to cast even the slightest glimmer of silver light. 

Then an ember, a match struck, now carrying a small flame. Her eyes are drawn to it, unable to look away from the only light within the blanket of darkness. It’s held before her by someone she can’t make out, a stranger seeking her destruction, a faceless figure wishing her harm. 

She wants to scream out; to demand answers. Why is she here? What has she done? Why? But nothing comes out, her mouth moves but she’s only greeted with silence, her throat raw with the effort. 

They drop the match. 

And then it’s too bright as flames engulf her. It’s too loud as her voice finally works just to scream out her agony. She’s consumed, heat searing up her body, skin blistering and bubbling before it turns charred black. Seconds feel like hours as the fire burns through her, consuming and devouring her, eating through skin and muscle leaving cracking flesh in it’s wake. 

It burns through her binds and she collapses to the ground, sinking blackened fingers into the cool mud as she cries out. The flames die as she crashes down, but what’s left is no better. 

She shouldn’t be able to feel at this point, but she does, every nerve alight with pain and agony, anchoring her to the moment. Unable to numb herself from what’s been done to her. 

Her flesh burned black as the night sky, pulled tight from the damage, as if her own skin doesn’t fit her anymore. It cracks and rips with every movement, every twitch of muscle forcing the burned flesh apart. Something else emerging as she moves; something beneath the charred cocoon. 

Something soft and white peaks through a crack in her shoulder, a delicate petal stained pink with blood, burnt melted flesh clinging to it’s edges. 

She shouldn’t be able to move at this point, but she does. 

Her fingers crack apart as she reaches and pinches the petal between them, ever aware of the figures still watching her form, she pulls. 

Dahlia cries, the salt of her tears sting her skin, but she doesn’t stop pulling. Flesh rips and parts for the flower to be pulled from her body, the white trumpet shaped blossoms that cover the county. There’s more inside her, she can feel the bouquets within her, pressing under the skin and desperate to be freed. 

And so, she frees them. 

She digs her blunt nails into the burnt skin, she hurts and she cries, but she doesn’t stop. She claws through her own flesh, tearing it off and exposing every flower beneath. It’s the only relief she can find, each petal exposed, every bloom reaching the surface making her breathe a little easier. 

She tears at her own flesh, white trumpet flowers and red layered blossom blooming from her shoulder, vibrancy between streaks of charred skin. Blood and vines pulled from her arms, small blue flowers blossoming out. A heavy hand down her jawline exposes more red flowers, bursting forth from her face. 

There’s a freedom in tearing it all away, a joy in the pain and relief of pulling off the shell of decay and trauma to expose something beautiful beneath. To be made of something more than damage and death; to be something worth looking at. 

She sinks her fingers into the flesh of her stomach, and she tears through it. Blood and flowers spill out; white petals stained pink as they hit the ground. She can feel them easing out, falling out from inside her stomach, slipping from between her ribs as they cover the dirt. 

And she is damaged, and she is empty, but she has given the world something beautiful. Burnt to a crisp and in agony, she still gave the world something, tearing herself apart just to do so.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ,” Dahlia curses as she wakes up, cold sweat on her skin as she sits up on her couch. She rubs her hands down the length of her arms, happy to feel unburnt skin under her fingertips. 

She rubs a hand down her face and checks the time, eight something in the morning. She’s not a stranger to nightmares, they were fairly frequent when she was young, but they’ve been coming back with a vengeance as of late. And those flowers seem to be a recurring theme. 

Dahlia, despite her name, doesn’t know anything about flowers. She can’t tell a lick of difference between them; wouldn’t know a rose if she tripped over it. It’s all just pretty background visuals. But those white flowers are strange, the smell of them always making her lightheaded and clouding her vision, maybe she’s allergic. 

A quick shower helps to scrub away the sweat on her skin and push the bad dream further out of her mind. She sighs when she glances at the time, if she’s going to go to the sermon and barbecue, she’d need to start getting ready. She’d hate to disappoint or upset anyone, but she doesn’t want to go. The idea of stepping foot in a church makes her stomach churn and the hair on the back of her neck stand up. But, maybe, this will be good for her? Exposure therapy or something. 

She’ll try it, she decides, to avoid stepping on toes and maybe even help herself. If it gets bad, then she’ll leave. Surely, they can’t be upset if she tried. Dahlia throws on some clothes she finds sticking out of her duffle bag, having never emptied it or properly moved in. She considers straightening her hair for a grand total of a second before deciding it’s too much effort, instead just finger combing it before she throws on her leather jacket.

She takes her time riding her motorcycle up that way, knowing if she speeds and ends up hurting herself, she’d never hear the end of it. As she crosses the bridge that connects the Henbane River area to the island where Eden’s Gate Church is, she notices the tall fencing separating the road form the land of the island. It curls around the outside of the island as well. It makes it so short of flying, the only way to get to the church is following the road, which would make keeping track of who’s coming and going easier. But why they’d be concerned with the matter is another question. 

Her tires hit the dirt road and she sees the gate before the church. There are people gathered around outside the church, a few throwing her strange looks. She’s getting better at picking peggies, as everyone seems to call them, out from a crowd. Every man has a full beard; every member covered in tattoos, with one or more of the seven deadly sins incorporated into them. 

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the gate, tucking the key in her pocket, keeping her hands in her pocket as she lets out a heavy sigh. Her stomach is already churning, bile threatening to raise in the back of her throat. She hates churches, god, she hates churches. She scratches at her nose, desperate to do something with her hands, as well as quelling the itch she gets from those white flowers.

Dogs bark as she strides through the gates, black pitbulls kept behind fencing. Hands tucked in her pockets, she keeps her head down as she moves, watching as each member of the church walks into the white building. 

She chews her lip, what to do next, she’s torn between wanting to run and wanting to push past this. Exposure therapy, she tells herself over and over again, but the words can’t seem to make her move. This was a bad idea, a horrible fucking idea. Her skin prickles and goosebumps; sweat beading down her neck and across her forehead. 

Long fingers twisted in her too long hair, dragging her into the still empty church, no matter how much she cries or kicks. Sweat coating her skin beneath the modest white dress, fabric thick despite the Louisiana sun. His voice booms and echoes through the church as he yells at her to sit, hands folded in her lap, back ramrod straight in the hard wood pew. He would never share his home with a godless heathen. 

“You going in?” 

Dahlia jerks at the soft voice and light touch on her shoulder, twisting away from the memories that trapped her. She’s not a kid anymore, forced to play sweet preacher’s daughter in front of the congregation. Dahlia is an adult, making her own choices, she reminds herself. The very concept of it still foreign to her. 

A young man, can’t be more than a year or two older than her, is beside her. He looks at Dahlia like she’s a wounded animal, which may not be far off from the truth. If not for the tattoos down his arms and the word ENVY tattooed then crossed out along his chest, she’d doubt he was even a member of the church. Rather than the full beard that she sees on every man’s face, his own is scratchy at best, a spattering of hair on his chin and jaw. He also has one of the few pairs of dark brown eyes, soft and open as he looks at her. 

“Uh, I, uh, actually think I’m gonna go,” Dahlia decides, this is clearly too much for her, ideas of exposure therapy be damned. 

“You’re the deputy, right?” he asks, “the one The Father invited.” 

Dahlia nods her head. 

“I’m Waylon,” the man extends his hand and Dahlia shakes it, “The Father told all of us how he wants to share the word with you, it’s a blessing, you know.” 

So, why does it feel like a curse? 

“I-” 

“You’re afraid,” Waylon says, so blunt and matter of fact that Dahlia glares, ready to defend her own ego, “it’s okay, a lot of people are afraid when they come here. I know I was. But, those fears go away.” 

“I don’t think it’s gonna work that way for me.” 

“Won’t know until you try,” Waylon takes a step up, one foot through the church door, then offers his hand, “come on, one little step.” 

It doesn’t feel like her choice anymore; not when he offers a tattooed hand and looks at her softly, the burden of expectation forcing her to move. She doesn’t take his hand, but she steps up and follows him through the door. 

It doesn’t seem like service has started yet. The church is relatively small, dark wooden pews with a walkway between that leads up to a short stage platform. Candles are already lit and surrounding it, a tv screen displays the symbol of the church. Empty birdcages hang from the ceiling, casting shadows where they block the candle light. 

Waylon brings her through the back pew, perhaps trying to respect her discomfort. A sea of bodies jammed into the small church. Some members choose to stand beside the pews instead of sitting. It’s a large congregation, despite the modest church. There’s some murmurings among the people; idle conversations about their lives and the world. Mothers holding babies, parents taming children who wish to run around when it’s time to calm down. Some read through the white leather books, adorned with the golden symbol of the church. 

Her leg bounces and shakes, as she tries to work through the anxious energy building up inside of her. A hand lands on her knee and she pulls her leg in, avoiding Waylon’s touch. He pulls away and offers a small smile in response. 

“Just relax and listen, it will be okay.” 

Hard wood of the pew is pressing harshly into her thighs where she sits; they’re never comfortable. Even when they didn’t agitate her fight or flight response, she could never feel at peace. The harsh wood, the somber atmosphere, it all made her squirm. Maybe she’s never belonged in such a place. Maybe he knew that, maybe he knew she was never meant to be a part of this world. 

After another moment, the room calms down. She sees the Seeds starting to come out from a door tucked somewhere behind the strange. Faith is the first to step out, bare feet gliding across the room. She greets people as she walks, green eyes darting all around the room, then they land on Dahlia. The young deputy sinks further down in the pew and avoids eye contact. 

Then it’s John, black suit, blue tie; shaking hands and smiling like his life depends on it. He starts to look at her and she responds by sinking even further down. She doesn’t like the attention, the expectant eyes. She’s already on edge, observation will only make it worse, a bug under the magnifying glass. Her nails tap on the pew wood, her leg still bouncing. 

Jacob’s boots boom across the stage as he moves; unlike the two younger ones, his eyes don’t look around. He’s focused and zeroed in, unconcerned with anyone here, a blessed moment of relief. She’s never felt so thankful for someone not caring about her. He doesn’t greet anyone, not properly, only nodding at someone. 

Then there’s Joseph, wearing a shirt and vest, looking slightly less chaotic than he did that first day. His intense stare is everywhere; her head throbs and she knows it isn’t her injury, she sinks even further before she can feel that look on her skin. If he never looked at her again it would be too soon, she decides, sunk so far down she can’t see any of the stage anymore. 

“You can’t see anything down there,” Waylon whispers at her and she reluctantly adjusts her posture. She has to sit up, has to be proper, show respect; she knows the dance. Dahlia ignores the way her throat tightens and forces herself to look at the stage where Joseph stands, immediately wishing she didn’t. While looking more normal when clothed, he’s still intense, he stares head on to his congregation. 

“My children, we are truly blessed to be here together,” he starts voice echoing and resonating throughout the room. She spares a glance at Waylon, seeing the way he’s enraptured in the Father’s words. Everyone else the same; she’s the only strange one. The only one not hanging on every word. She always is. 

“Bless be to you, my father,” the entire room speaks in unison and her skin is crawling, she doesn’t belong. 

Her head spins, words fading into the foreground as her palms start to sweat. She can’t catch a deep enough breath and her stomach hurts, aches as pit forms within it. The world around her seems to shift and change between the present and the past. Memories of her childhood clawing to overtake the moment. 

She can see it in the way they stare so reverently at their leader, eyes marking their conviction as they listen to every word he says, like it it’s the very key to salvation. Dahlia can picture every tattooed member of Eden’s Gate replaced with the more conservative older members of Monroe’s congregation. She can envision the fresh faced ministers in training who looked up to her step-father in place of the bearded flock around her. 

She can hear it in the synchronized responses they give their leader. Hymns, prayers, and scriptures all recounting with precision; all voices melding into a religious cacophony. For a moment she swears she can hear her mother’s voice somewhere in the crowd, singing the praises of the man who abused Dahlia so viciously, under the guise of divine punishment. 

And she can feel it from Joseph. There’s a cadence and rhythm to preaching; beats and mannerisms they all seem to share. The heavy conviction in the voice, the dramatic gestures as they speak of damnation, the intensity in their expression. Just like the flock, she can see Monroe in Joseph’s place, fitting in here so naturally. The barely below middle-aged man replaced with a much older one; vivid blue eyes replaced with duller grayer ones that bare the same intensity but none of the warmth. 

Dahlia jumps over the back of the pew, she needs to get out, she needs to get away and she doesn’t care if she causes a scene doing it. She rushes through the church doors, letting them slam behind her. 

She can’t be sure if she’s tripping or if it’s just her body collapsing from her mind, but her knees hit the dirt. Her fingers dig into the soil as she retches; her empty stomach means bile and water paint the ground. Not unlike her dream, down on the ground, pouring the contents of her stomach out. She retches and dry heaves, body desperate to get rid of something that isn’t there. Another moment passes and her body starts to calm, face still slick with sweat, she moves to sit. Her back is pressed against the outside of the church, a breeze blowing through and cooling her skin. She takes deep breaths of air, thankful for the luxury of breathing freely, rocking herself slightly as she tries to calm down. 

Dahlia rakes a hand through her hair, sweat tangling the locks and she hears another dog bark. Most of the pittbulls had calmed down once the crowd of people left outside; but one either never settled down or was roused by her leaving. It stares her down behind the chain link fence. It pins it’s ears back and growls when it sees her. Nope, no, she will not accept any dog not loving her. 

The young deputy stands, limbs still shaky, and carefully walks towards the fencing, deliberately slow steps so as to not startle the dog. She slowly sticks her hand towards the chain link, just in front of the dog’s nose. The pitbull growls for a moment then calms a bit, sniffing at her hand, trying to assess if she’s a threat. 

“Our dogs aren’t too friendly with outsiders,” a voice calls out, Waylon’s. 

“Likes me alright…” 

“You good with animals?” 

Dahlia gives a hum and nod, focused on letting the pitbull get used to her hand and smell. The presence of a dog easing the frayed nerves she’s had since she came here. She sticks her fingers through the little gaps in the fencing, the dog gives one more sniff, then licks her. 

“Do you wanna pet him?” 

Dahlia nods and Waylon goes to get something, when she sees him again he’s on the other side of the fencing. He scratches the top of the dog’s head and clips a leash on his collar. Waylon brings the dog out and Dahlia tries to contain her excitement as the pitbull sniffs at her leg; slowly crouching down to scratch behind it’s ears, before just sitting down in the dirt to welcome the dog into her lap.

“What’s his name?” 

“We don’t name them,” Waylon explains and Dahlia looks at him like he’s grown a third head. 

She’s bad with names to be fair, to the point most people would say she doesn’t properly name animals, but with the sheer volume of guard dogs here; it probably gets confusing. So, Dahlia decides she’ll have to name the doggo. Like all of them she’s seen, he’s an intimidating black pitbull who looks like it could maul most people. A small notch in the dog’s ear. 

“Cerberus,” she deems him, hugging the dog and burying her face into his fur. He licks at her head, mussing up the already sweaty hair. 

“I’m not sure how the Father would feel about you naming one of our dogs after the guard dog of hell…”

Dahlia could argue about the difference between biblical hell and the Greek concept of the underworld; but instead she just burrows her face into the dog’s coat. Animals are just pure comfort in their beautiful fluffy bodies. 

“Are you okay?” Waylon asks after a beat of silence and she just looks up at her from her cuddled up place with Cerberus. Is that question remotely necessary? Does she seem okay? Does an okay person run out of a church like they’ve caught fire?

“It’s okay, I know that finding salvation is an intense experience.” 

Dahlia rolls her eyes, because he doesn’t get it and she doesn’t expect him too. It’s just exhausting and once she’s satisfied with cuddling the newly named Cerberus, she’ll be leaving to lick her proverbial wounds. Not that she has anything better to do anyway. 

“Uh, do you wanna talk about it?” 

She raises an eyebrow, still not bothering to speak a word as she holds Cerberus; why the fuck would she want to talk about it? She’s known him a grand total of an hour, she’s known Lloyd and Caroline for two years and the most she told them about her childhood was ‘bad’. Hell, Pratt and Hudson have known her nearly two weeks at this point, Pratt and her spending almost every day together, and she’s not sure they even know her first name. 

“Okay, I get it, quiet type,” Waylon sits down beside her and Cerberus, “We don’t have to talk about that…uh, are you staying for the barbecue?” 

“I just skipped service five minutes in and puked behind the church.” 

“So…you made room for potato salad, that’s great!” 

Her lips split into a wide grin and she sputters out a laugh; the sincerity of his words catching her off guard. It is certainly an optimistic spin on the issue, her heart warms as she chuckles at the stupidity. 

“So you do smile?” He says, grinning at her. 

“Rarely, but it does happen.” 

“Brother Waylon, deputy…” A soft voice catches their attention, Faith standing nearby, head cocked curiously at them. Her green eyes blinking owlishly. Waylon scrambles up to his feet, snapping to attention before one of the heralds, the pristine Seed siblings. 

“Faith, I was just talking to the deputy. She wanted to pet one of the dogs, I thought it might make ease her nerves.” 

She lays a delicate hand on his shoulder, smiling softly at him, a gentle little church mouse wrapped in white lace. Her touch and expression easing the nerves of Waylon. 

“That was very considerate of you, but do you mind if I speak with her alone, for just a moment?” 

“Not at all, of course.” 

Waylon goes off to give the two women space and Dahlia looks down at Cerberus, booping his nose and getting kisses in return. Steps shift around her, Faith getting closer, Dahlia can see the bare feet of the youngest Seed in her peripheral vision. 

“Can I sit with you?” 

Dahlia responds by taking off her leather jacket and putting it on the ground beside her; with the pure white of Faith’s dress, the grass or dirt could stain it quickly. The blonde woman sits down on the jacket, thanking Dahlia for the kind gesture. 

“You’re not great with people, are you deputy?” 

Dahlia shrugs in response, still not motivated to talk in this moment. Faith isn’t wrong, yet, it’s not as if this was spurred on by social anxiety. Talking and socializing isn’t her strong-suit, crowds make her uncomfortable unless there’s music blaring, but this isn’t the same thing. This isn’t her leaving the F.A.N.G Center because people are giving her strange looks and the statue gives her a headache, it’s not avoiding spending time with people because she’s not convinced she can carry a conversation. It’s deeper, but she isn’t about to spill her guts to strangers. 

“I know it’s hard, moving away from everything to come here. Leaving behind everything you know and not being sure where you fit in,” Faith’s eyes look over her injured face, the skin mottled with bruises, “I was surprised when John told me you were at the bar with the other deputies yesterday…” 

“They invited me,” Dahlia says, shrugging. 

“Yes and it only took someone assaulting you,” Faith says, shaking her head like she can’t believe what Pratt and Hudson have done, Dahlia can fill in the blanks, the idea that the two senior officers only invited her out of pity. 

And Dahlia chews her lip, she didn’t really think of it like that, but gears are certainly starting to turn. Did they only invite her because she was injured? Pratt seemed shaken up; maybe it was pity or even just guilt? Dahlia’s chest feels tight and constricted, a pang in her heart. 

Another beat of silence before the church mouse continues, realizing again that Dahlia is going to avoid contributing to this conversation. 

“You deserve better than that, you deserve people who will welcome you with open arms. Not people will only give you shreds of empathy when they see fit, like crumbs for a starving dog, it-” 

The tightness in Dahlia’s chest snaps. 

“You really like pointing out how sad my life is, don’t you?” The words bubble and rush out, raising an eyebrow at Faith. Between this and their conversation at the trailer park, it seems to be a theme. Dahlia is well aware of her pathetic state of existence, but a stranger pointing it out is ridiculous. Just jab a finger in her open fucking wound, why don’t you? 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“You don’t know me well enough to hurt me,” Dahlia retorts, a harsh and gravely note in her voice, her blood pressure rising as her irritation grows.

“I know-”

“You know, Waylon knows, Layla knows, Pratt knows; everyone thinks they fuckin’ know why I’m like this and why I do what I do,” Dahlia’s voice is tight and harsh, it feels like air coming out of a popped balloon, breaking through tension, “but not a damn one of you do. You don’t know shit. You don’t know what I think, you don’t know what I feel, you don’t know what it’s my head, my heart, you don’t know what I’ve been you. For fucks sake, you don’t even know my name.” 

Dahlia breathes, feeling relief at letting it all out. They keep presuming knowledge of her and her life. Pratt called her sensitive and even volunteered her for this. Waylon and Layla telling her they know how hard the path to salvation is, as if it’s just growing pains in finding religion. Faith assumesto know how Dahlia feels about her situation, that Dahlia is just bad with people, that this is all an extension of her feeling out of place. And sure, she’s lonely, real fucking lonely, and she doesn’t feel like she fits in; but she can deal with that. She’s been alone the majority of her life, that’s how it is and how it’s always going to be. It’s the feeling of powerlessness. She has no control in her own fucking life and it’s killing her. That a man thousands of miles away in Louisiana, who she hasn’t talked to in years, still controls her life. Him and the things he did to her still color every single aspect of her existence. 

And she knows it’s not their fault, that they don’t know anything about her, she doesn’t want them to. She purposely leaves spots blank, doesn’t disclose, doesn’t talk about it. She’s not angry they don’t know, she’s angry they keep trying to fill in the blanks for themselves. It’s not that they don’t know, it’s the presumption that they do. That her problems and her trauma, her feelings that still confuse her most days, are so pathetically simple that they can possibly comprehend them at first glance. Lloyd once told her she wears her trauma like a coat, that anyone with eyes can tell she’s been hurt, it’s just a matter of finding out how. She wishes they’d stop pretending they know how. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Faith tells her and Dahlia feels the sincerity in it, the compassion, healing her frayed feelings like a salve, “I don’t know anything about you, so, maybe-“ 

“That’s by design, Church Mouse,” Dahlia says, stopping Faith before she can suggest they get to know each other. 

“So, you don’t want anyone to know anything about you?” 

“I don’t even wanna know anything about me, I just, need people to stop thinking they cracked the code. Alright?” 

“Okay then, I can do that, would you like to stay for the barbecue?” 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” 

“Please, it’ll be fun.” 

“Alright, I guess.” Dahlia sighs, getting a hold of Cerberus’s leash as she stands up, her butt starting to fall asleep by the time she does. Faith stands next to her, handing Dahlia her leather jacket. 

“Um, you might want to take him back to his pen before we go though,” Faith says, looking down at the pitbull between them. 

“Why?” 

“Jacob doesn’t like anyone spoiling them too much, if he’s out someone’s going to feed him table scraps.” 

“It’s me, I’m someone.” 

“Exactly,” she says through a lighthearted chuckle, “so go put him away, did Waylon show you where to go for that?” 

“Yeah,” Dahlia shrugs and says, she got the gist of there’s a door that opens somewhere. Disingenuous as it may be, she’d like a bit of time to wander around alone and figure it out, before she’s surrounded by church members again. 

“I’ll be waiting with the others than.” 

Dahlia nods and goes walking the dog towards where she saw Waylon go earlier. She finds the door to the chain link enclosure pretty easily, which is unfortunate for her wandering around idea. More of the dogs crowd around the door, no longer barking, but wagging their tails when they see Cerberus is back. When she unlatches the door and unleashes Cerberus he runs to play with the rest of them, playfully nipping and chasing each other. 

She watches them play for a few moments, wondering if anyone would be upset if she skipped the barbecue and just climbs into the dog kennel. But, no, that’s probably not the smartest idea. She looks around for somewhere to hook the leash, expecting somewhere to store them nearby, but there’s nothing. Maybe it’s in one of the buildings around? 

On the island compound there’s several white buildings; the church only differentiated by it’s steepled roof and a barn standing out among them. The rest of the buildings are near identical except for Latin words scribbled across them; avaritia, gula, superbia, acedia, ira, Invidia, and-

A heavy thud rings out from the building marked luxuria, one of them right next to the gates. A strange noise following; it sounds odd… Did an animal get in the building? A muffled almost keening sound passes through. Curiosity nagging at her, Dahlia pushes the door open. 

Huh? Her eyebrows furrow as she tries to decipher what she’s looking at. 

From behind she can certainly tell the man is John. Dark hair slicked back, blue shirt, and tattoos along what she can see of his forearms. His back is towards her, but there’s a woman on a table in front of him, legs wrapped around John’s waist and hands grabbing on his shirt sleeves. Her red hair is a mess and she’s crying out. His hips are moving, rocking the table, his pants starting to slip off his-

“Fuck, fuck, harder!” 

Oh god, they’re fucking, the realization sends heat up the naïve deputy’s face. She turns on her heels and rushes out the door, what the fuck, her foot bashes and catches on the side of the door. Dahlia curses as she nearly hits the ground. 

“Oh fuck, someone’s here!” 

“For fucks sake!” 

Dahlia gets her footing back and books it, trying to rush to the picnic area. Footsteps following behind her, she doesn’t look back, too flustered to make eye contact with the people she caught mid-fuck. 

Dahlia slides as she stops herself at the picnic area, once again narrowly avoiding falling into the dirt. The white slightly paint chipped picnic tables are strewn over the open area, people all around. The biggest cluster of them centered around Joseph, his profile just visible over one of his flock member’s shoulder. Others chat happily together, some are placing food out on the tables. Jacob and a few other men are at the barbecue; conversation seemingly terse and stilted. Faith is chatting with a group of women. As always, Dahlia’s shocked at the ease in which others can socialize, the few glances her way make her squirm. Though, that may be the residual embarrassment of what she caught John doing. Her face is still flushed, seriously, what is wrong with people? There’s a time and place; this is certainly not either. 

“Deputy,” John finally catches up to her, dropping a heavy hand on her shoulder. This is the first time he hasn’t dragged out each syllable of her job title, there’s a flush in his cheeks.

“Hey,” she reluctantly greets him, shifting out from under his touch. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, how unfortunate it would be if you told anyone what you just saw.” 

“I’m not gonna tell anyone.” Why would she, she’s actively attempting to repress the memory.

“Good to know,” he pauses, blue eyes looking her over for a moment, “y’know, you could have joined in, I certainly wouldn’t have minded.” 

“Ew,” Dahlia says with a grimace, what is wrong with him? His face falls and he glares at Dahlia, his own fault for being gross. 

“Excuse you, I’ll hav-” 

“Your fly’s still open.” 

John curses under his breath and looks down, hands bumbling to fix his pants. Dahlia laughs, cackling at the ridiculousness of the situation. She knows John seems to think of himself like a televangelist for Eden’s Gate, if his commercials are anything to go off of. And just like so many of them, he’s apparently prone to getting caught with his pants down. The older man huffs and glares at her once his pants are fixed, the expression reminding her of a child pouting 

“Everyone sit down, it’s time to eat,” Jacob’s voice booms over everything, the first time she’s truly heard the oldest Seed speak. 

Dahlia scurries away from John, finding a place to tuck herself in at the picnic table. She decides to sit at the end seat of the table the furthest out, between her desire for distance and not wanting to force herself anywhere she doesn’t belong. 

“Deputy,” Joseph calls out and Dahlia immediately sinks a bit, instinct telling her to make herself smaller, “please come sit over here with us.” 

She nods, not feeling like she should refuse, she moves to the centermost table. Dahlia sits directly across from Joseph, god he’s going to make it uncomfortable to eat. He sits between Jacob and John, Faith sits beside Jacob. They’re an odd little family, beyond just their behavior. The middle and youngest brother by far have the strongest family resemblance, dark hair and blue eyes, little facial features in common as well. Jacob has blue eyes as well, but his have a bit more green in them. His hair is ginger in color, a stark contrast to his brothers and sister. Faith is probably the oddest addition in terms of looks and age. She’s much younger than the brothers, probably closer to Dahlia’s age than theirs, with dirty blonde hair and completely green eyes. 

On Dahlia’s left she feels someone settle in, catching the sight of the snake tattoo along the arm, Lonny settles in beside her. He gives a shit eating grin and winks at her. She shifts further to the right when a woman sits down on that side and Dahlia immediately looks down at the table when she realizes who it is. It’s the woman she caught with John, red hair now pulled back in a ponytail. She’s beautiful, undeniably so, even tied back her hair reaches to between her shoulder blade and her eyes a green hazel color. Her face is delicate looking, full lips and round eyes, almost doll like. 

“I’m Holly,” the woman introduces herself, maybe to stave off the awkwardness of the moment. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia mumbles, before she sees Waylon passing by in search of a seat, “hey, Waylon.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I couldn’t figure out where to hang this,” Dahlia tells him, pulling the leash for Cerberus out of her pocket.

“Oh, I’ll take care of it.” 

“Was one of the dogs out?” Jacob suddenly asks and Waylon’s posture goes stiff, Faith did say Jacob is a tight ass when it comes to the dogs. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted it out,” Dahlia butts in before Waylon can say anything, the guy clearly scared of Jacob. Which, to be fair, Jacob cuts an imposing figure. Dahlia is still fully convinced that the oldest Seed could snap her spine with one hand if he had the mind to. 

“Waylon thought the dog might ease some of the deputy’s nerves,” Faith adds. 

“They’re guard dogs, not therapy dogs.” 

“Any dog’s a therapy dog if you’re messed up enough,” Dahlia retorts.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His condescending nickname and jab at her mental health comes with a smirk.

“Can we go back to you not talking? That was nice.” 

The retort earns her a few glares around the table, in particular a woman with short dark hair and a man with longer scraggly hair looks like they’re ready to reach across the table and strangle Dahlia for daring to snark back at Jacob. But the oldest Seed just gives a short dry chuckle and despite being a small sound, it feels patronizing. Like he’s laughing at a toothless puppy trying to bite; dismissive of Dahlia and her response. 

“I think this would be a good time to say grace, before we eat,” Joseph speaks and all tension eases, his voice soothing everyone. 

Joseph extends his hands to his brothers on each side, the two taking them as they join hands with Faith and the flock member next to John. Lonny and Holly both extend their hands to Dahlia. She hesitates but takes them and bows her head along with everyone else. 

“Dear heavenly father, we thank you for blessing us with another day here together with family both old and new, we thank you for providing for us a food and drink we may share together, we thank you for gracing us with your love and kindness. I thank you for gifting me with my flock, for guiding them to me so that I may share with them your truth, your voice, and your love. Amen.” 

Dahlia mumbles her amen, though it rings empty for her, she doesn’t mind going along with it. It feels like the least she can do, considering she made a scene and ran out during the middle of his sermon. If she had pulled that kind of move during one of her step-father’s sermons, he’d be beating her black and blue the second he had the chance. Joseph doesn’t seem upset, but it wouldn’t be the first time a preacher put on a face in front of his flock. She tries to get the thoughts out of her head, focusing attention on stuffing her face. 

“Come up for air, before you choke,” Jacob comments, making her pause as half a burger is still hanging out of her mouth, “you eat like you haven’t seen food in years.” 

“Sorry, I’m weird with food,” she admits, thinking of how many times she has been starving in her life, “and church…and religion…and…you know what, I think I might just be weird.” 

“You’re just as God meant you to be,” Joseph says, though it definitely didn’t need to be that deep, “all are welcome here.” 

“’preciate it.” Her words slur around a mouthful of food as she ducks her head down to avoid Joseph’s gaze, does he need to be this intense?

“You’re from Louisiana, aren’t you, deputy?” John is the one to steer the conversation, next. 

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t know anyone when you moved here?”

“No,” Dahlia recounts, apparently pointing out her lack of a social life in Montana is a family trait. She crams a peach fritter in her mouth to compensate for the irritation in her veins. 

“What was it that drew you to Hope County?” Joseph is the one to ask, blue eyes again intense. They’re warm and she can feel the kindness, but it’s all encompassing, unbreaking, like blazing fire.

“A job,” she says, though it’s far from the complete truth. 

“There weren’t any jobs in Louisiana?” Lonny cuts in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“None I wanted.” 

Joseph gives a nod of what seems to be understanding and she’s thankful that the interrogation seems to come to an end. Conversation going on around her, but blissfully not revolving around her. At some point, once everyone has had a decent fill of their food, they start to disperse. People wandering around to have conversations, parents playing with their children. The Seeds and Lonny are all thankfully pulled away for conversations, Dahlia left tapping her fingers against the picnic table. 

“Hey, stranger,” Holly says after another beat of silence, turning to face Dahlia. 

“Hey…” 

“I’m sorry about, uh, what you saw…”

“It’s not any of my business. “ 

“I’m still sorry, I’m sure you must be thinking the worst of me…” Holly murmurs, looking down at the table, twisting her fingers together. 

“Uh, I think you could have chosen a better time and place, but that’s all.” 

“That’s fair,” Holly nods, tucking a ginger strand of hair back behind her ear, “I appreciate it, the lack of judgement.” 

“My opinion ain’t worth shit anyway, don’t stress over it.” 

“I’m not sure about that, The Father certainly seems to think highly of you. He really-“ 

“Wanted me to come here, so I’ve heard.” And she ran out during service and puked in the weeds. With that Dahlia rubs a hand down her face and stands up from the table. Holly looks up at her curiously as she does so. 

Dahlia can’t change the past and what’s happened to her, she’s still desperately trying to control her reaction to it. But, she can recognize when she stepped on someone’s toe and if nothing else, own up to it. Joseph himself hasn’t done anything, but be a preacher, and he wanted to share his faith with her. Dahlia’s been spiteful, albeit in private, assuming the worst and then disrupted their service. He doesn’t deserve that. 

She walks around people, giving quick waves and stilted nods to them as she makes her way towards where she sees Joseph talking to people. Dahlia’s missed the majority of the conversation, but catches something about a collapse, whatever that means. She doesn’t want to interrupt, nervously scratching at her nose. 

“I think someone needs to talk to you, Father,” a man gestures at Dahlia over Joseph’s shoulder and she wants to sink into the ground when he turns to see her. He offers her a soft smile and she gives him an awkward wave in response. 

“What can I help you with, my child?”

“Uh,” being called that stirs odd feelings that she proceeds to shove down, “I was hoping I could talk to you privately for just a moment.” 

“Of course, please, excuse us.”

“Bless be to you, Father,” they all murmur in response, sending a chill up her spine. Joseph turns to her, placing a hand on her upper back, she flinches but forces herself not to pull away. 

“Let’s go over here,” he guides her as they walk, the warmth of his hand seeping through her clothes, “it’s more private.” 

She nods in agreement as they walk further back on the compound, she mostly appreciates the privacy but she’d be lying if she said a part of her isn’t fearful; he just wants a spot to yell at her without prying eyes. Memories of being taken back behind a church for punishment flashing through her panicky mind. They reach a spot near the church beside the building marked Invidia. The warmth of his hand leaves her as she shifts to lean against the structure, her own hands twitch and she’s tempted to pull out a cigarette. But instead she lets out a soft sigh of air, only one word racing through her mind. 

“What was it-”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she rushes it all out, crossing her arms and staring down at her feet. And then she waits. Waits for him to scold her, tell her she’s rude, cruel, a brat, an asshole, a crybaby, or any number of things. 

And he chuckles. Soft and warm, it’s quiet, but deep. She looks up, through her hair she sees the smile that pulls at Joseph’s lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the warmth of it. Heat floods up her cheeks. 

“You have nothing to apologize for.” 

“Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” 

“You invited me to your church, I ran out during service, I ruined your sermon, and made an ass of myself. 

“I assure you,” he presses a hand against the side of her face, not reacting when she flinches like she always does, instead he lets her unease to pass and then puts his forehead to hers, “I’m not mad, I’m not upset. You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Tension leaves her, feeling the warm calloused skin of her hand on her bruised face, pressing into his forehead. for the first time in years she finds herself leaning into a touch, her eyes close as she soaks it in. And she wonders why she ever compared him to her stepfather, in this moment, she can’t imagine ever confusing his warmth for the hatred of that man. Everything wrong in the world made right with a kind touch and kinder words. 

“Okay, I get it,” Dahlia admits with a smile as she forces herself to break the touch, if she didn’t she might be tempted to lean into him forever. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I get why people listen to you, why so many of them trust you,” her cheeks warm at the admission, “you’re nice. And even if you’re not mad, I’m still sorry.” 

“That’s kind of you to say. I know this wasn’t easy for you.” 

“Yeah, I, uh, got a bad history with religion and preachers, but that’s not on you.” She stares at her feet and tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. 

“It can be difficult, separating our past from the present. Someone hurt you and turned you away from religion, however, that past pain led you here and for that I’m thankful.”

“I’m thankful to be here,” she searches for her words, unsure of how to express her sentiment as she makes eye contact, “this was good for me, even if I couldn’t stay in the church long.” 

A weight is lifted off her chest, those nasty chills and awful feelings alleviated. She no longer sees him as the newest version of her trauma, the shadow of her stepfather no longer looming over Joseph. Dahlia will never be a fan of religion and certainly couldn’t see herself ever joining the church, but she feels better about it. At the very least maybe she can reach a point where that trauma doesn’t paint so much of her perspective. 

“I’m glad it was beneficial for you, even if it’s not the way I hoped to reach you. If you’re willing to try again, our services are always open to you.” 

“I can’t promise I won’t have another, uh, moment…,” she bites her lip, words failing her for a moment, “But, before my probationary hire ends, I will step foot in your church again.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Joseph tells her, a soft smile on his face.

It’s a small thing to most, but huge to her, she wants to get past this. And if Joseph is willing to extend the invitation and accept her struggles, then she’ll take the chance to push through. She’d love to be able to exist more peacefully with religion, to not have those preconceived notions, for fear not to creep up her spine every time she sees a church. 

Guilt squashed and feelings mended between them, the two return to the barbecue. The afternoon going on calmly but mostly uneventful, the Seeds remain swarmed by members trying to speak with them. Dahlia mostly munches on food, few people spark up conversation with her, mostly Waylon and Layla. 

“I, uh, owe you an apology too, Layla. I was way too aggressive when you came to the department. And I’m sorry.” 

“You really do struggle with this, don’t you?” 

“There’s a mess of bullshit in my brain, I’m not gonna lie, but that doesn’t make it okay. I’m really sorry.” 

“I was probably more pushy than I should have been, all in the past. Let’s move on.” 

“Apologies done,” Waylon cuts in, smiling, “let’s focus on what matters? Making sure you come back, deputy.” 

The pair come up with increasingly asinine ideas of how to entice Dahlia to come back, which makes her laugh more than anything. The two make it sound like they’re trying to lure an animal. She half expects them to set up a box propped up on a stick with food under it, so they can yank out the stick and trap her, like in those cheesy cartoons. 

Her eyes wander as the conversation between Waylon and Layla continues on; taking everything in for a moment. It’s a sweet idyllic barbecue despite the more...inappropriate moments she’s caught and her trauma ruining the sermon; it’s truly a nice slice of wholesome happiness. 

A mother coos over her newborn, a couple hold hands talking together as if they’re in their own private world, a group of children play tag and taunt each other as they weave through the legs of adults; only calming down with a parent urges them not to stray away from the picnic area. Good advice, previous events considered. 

John is discussing something with flock members; too far away for Dahlia to quite decipher the words. But he gestures emphatically, Holly watching him as he does, occasionally rolling her eyes along to what Dahlia can only assume is something asinine the youngest brother has said. Lonny and Theodore are hovering not far from them; chatting amongst themselves. 

Faith puts a flower in a young woman’s hair, giggling when the woman’s face flushes a soft pink. How her white dress is clear of food or grass stains is beyond Dahlia’s understanding. 

An excited yell catches Dahlia’s attention, her eyes drawn to where a young child is grinning ear to ear. And she sees Jacob, the oldest and perhaps most elusive of the Seeds sitting at a picnic table across from the child, smiling. Compared to the stone cold faces he’s always worn whenever she’s seen him, it’s blindingly warm. He ruffles the young boy's hair and sends him on his way. Just for a young girl, maybe eight, excitedly takes the boy’s place. Jacob props his elbow on the table, as one does for arm wrestling. The girl has to stand on the seat to properly put her small hand in her own larger one. She pushes back against him and after a moment; he lets her push his arm down against the table. 

“Ah, you got me,” she barely hears his words as the girl begins to cheer about how she beat him; running off to tell her mother with a wide smile. 

“Are you interested in Jacob, deputy?” Waylon asks after a moment and Dahlia’s brought back to reality. 

“Not particularly.” 

“Could have fooled me with the way you’re staring.” 

“Waylon,” Layla lightly smacks his shoulder, but she’s smiling, “don’t tease her, she’ll never come back.” 

“Hey, I’m not judging, she wouldn’t be the only one.” 

“Dude,” Dahlia can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous notion, “he’s old enough to be my dad.” 

“You say that like it stops people.” 

“Ew.” 

She wrinkles her nose at the thought and the two of them laugh; Dahlia joining in a moment after. The Seeds seem to be nice people, even if Jacob seems a tad more prickly, which she sure as hell can’t judge him for given her own tendencies. But, even if she befriends them beyond today, she can’t see ever having a romantic interest in them. She could write a mile long list from age differences with the brothers, religion being an inherent turn off for her, to the simple fact she has no intentions of truly dating in her life. Even her crush on Hudson is an anomaly to her and not something she plans on ever acting on. 

Caroline once told her how young kids playing marriage are like dogs chasing cars; they wouldn’t know what to do with it if they caught it. And despite being an adult, Dahlia still feels like she’s in that wheelhouse. She can’t imagine a relationship, can’t imagine being that important to someone, or how to maintain one. She’s settled on the idea, that maybe she’s simply not meant for one. 

Things wind down, barbecue coming to a closet, she says her goodbyes as she walks to her motorcycle. Thankfully, Lonny isn’t loitering around it like he likes to do. She’s able to leave without incident and a lighter feeling in her chest than when she came here. 

It’s still not far into the day, barely past two, so she stops off at where she needs to get her prescriptions. Some ointment crap for her eye and painkillers, she waits at the window in the store for it to be done, one of those pharmacies in a grocery store. She catches a peek of tattoos coming from under the sleeve of the head pharmacist, and more climbing out from under the neckline of his shirt. The designs remind her of the Eden’s Gate members, his name tag says Peter Feeney, she’s curious if she’s right. 

She grabs those meds and finds herself looking around the store, mostly just to pass the time. This week off is going to be boring, especially if she’s expected not to play around on her motorcycle in any dangerous way. She takes a turn into an aisle with stationary, school and officer stuff, a sketchbook catches her eye. She’s reminded of what Hudson said about her needing a hobby, one that isn’t dangerous. 

Dancing became her hobby outside of doing dumb shit on her bike when she was back in Reinette, while remote the nearest city was only an hour or so’s drive away. Which meant on weekends she could go up to clubs just to dance and scream along to music. But, while bigger Hope County is further out from it’s nearest city. Billings is over four hours away and Missoula is more than two. Maybe on a special occasion, but for the most part, it’s not worth the time and gas. 

Drawing was one of her favorite things to do as a kid, she would draw everything she sees, either when playing in the woods or what she saw on tv. As with most things, her stepfather decided to ruin that, throwing a fit when she drew a Goosebumps-esque monster. She’d still draw and scribble in school, from attempted portraits of her teacher or other students to anything she saw wandering outside the window. That is as long as she was in school, after that it was drawing flock members faces from memory, the only socialization outside of her family. She hasn’t even done that since she was seventeen.. So, this seems like a perfect chance to get back into it. She grabs up the sketchbook along with pens and pencils then goes to checkout. Everything gathered, she heads back to her trailer. 

Once her jeans are swapped out for comfy shorts, she pops one of the painkillers and uses the ointment then plops down on the floor in front of her coffee table with her sketchbook and pencils. She plays music from her phone, cracking it to the loudest volume, despite the chiller energy she wants. 

Now time to figure out what she wants to draw. She thinks for a while, the service and her nice little exchange with Joseph fresh in her mind, between the creepy statue and even creepier portrait in his book it really was a surprise that he was so kind. 

Does she still have that book?

She should, logically, she hasn’t taken it back to the hotel yet. Dahlia quickly finds it in her bag, a few more clothes strewn across her living room for the trouble. The heavy white leather book of Joseph hits the table with a plop, she turns and finds the opening portrait, with the middle Seed brother looking at her like a serial killer. She takes to trying to draw a less creepy portrait. The picture works as a general reference, but she tries to fix the angle and the harsh look in his eyes, trying to use the softer look on his face she saw today. 

> _I'm sorry about your broken heart_
> 
> _I'm trying to walk on broken glass_
> 
> _Do it all again for art_
> 
> _Like had to write a song about it_

Music blares as she drags pencil across paper, smooth steady lines as she tries to recreate the preacher. It’s not a flawless process, left hand smudging corners and staining her hand with graphite. Some lines don’t form quite the shape she wants, quickly erased, but a faint hint of them remain. Once satisfied with the lines there, she shades, using her pencil again and uses his eraser to lighten up some areas. 

> _I'll go if you'll go if you're cool with that_
> 
> _I'll go if you'll go I have hope that you'll know that_

And there he is, Joseph looking back at her with a soft expression. It’s clearly him, though she wonders if the eyes are just a bit asymmetrical, something she’s struggled with since she was a kid. But for the most part, and maybe it’s her own ego, she thinks it looks nicer than the Norman Bates version. It looks like a man who’d actually comfort you, truer to Joseph. It feels wrong to claim in any capacity she fixed it, but she feels satisfied at having conveyed how kind he is. 

> _I'll pray that you wanna get close to me_
> 
> _I'll give it some, give it some, give it some time_
> 
> _But I think that we're supposed to be..._

She fiddles with the pages, contemplating if she should read the thing, maybe tonight she will. For now, she thinks of if she can actually do anything with the drawing. She’s decidedly proud of it, being her first really drawing in years, it looks nice. She always had a knack for art; the only hobby she can have that doesn’t involve movement beyond her hands. 

> _And if you wanna get close to me_
> 
> _Just gimme some, gimme some, gimme some sign._
> 
> _I think that we're supposed to be_

Can art of someone be a gift? She knows sometimes people draw for friends, but they’re not really friends, she likes the guy but she doubts the two will ever hang out or catch a movie together. It could be seen as creepy, couldn’t it? Drawing someone without their permission. Fixing his creepy picture by being a bigger creep isn’t the greatest move. 

> _I wish that I could let it pass_
> 
> _I don't mind that you put it last_
> 
> _I made it worse I put you first by laughing like it didn't hurt_
> 
> _I'm in the dirt, I'll make it work though._

Dahlia googles it, seeing the general idea being that it can be nice, as long as you aren’t weird about it. But she’s weird about everything, so there’s that. She tears out the drawing and places it between book pages before putting it aside. 

Next is Pratt and she definitely isn’t giving it to him, because, well, it’s Pratt. She can already hear him mocking her for it. But, he’s the person she’s around the most and she trusts she can draw him without a reference. So, she does, singing along to her music as she creates a visage of her smartass partner. 

She draws portraits until her hand cramps up so badly she needs take longer than a second to shake the muscles loose. Hudson follows Pratt, then Whitehorse, then Lloyd and Caroline. Music changes as she creates them, singing along to lyrics, humming to beats as she draws. She might send the drawings of Lloyd and Caroline to them, let them know she’s thinking of them. She needs to call them too, she opts to do that while she waits for the pain in her hand to ease. 

“Would you be offended if someone compared you to a opossum?” She asks them after a beat of silence over the phone. 

“What?”

“Hudson compared me to this opossum we found, said she didn’t know who was cuter, is that a compliment or?” 

“Jesus, Stray, she was calling you cute basically,” Caroline says, exasperated. 

“Okay, is calling me cute a good thing?” Dahlia asks, waiting to be told she’s irritating again, but it’s a genuine question. Dahlia isn’t certain if being cute is necessarily good, usually when she’s been called that it’s felt patronizing if anything. 

“I mean, that depends,” Lloyd answers this one, “some people are into cute, but for other cute just means you’re on the same level as baby ducks. And no one wants to date a baby duck.” 

“And anyone who does is a little strange.” 

“Very true, second question, would it be creepy if someone drew you and gave to you as a gift?” 

“You draw?” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“How the hell did we not know that?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What else are you hiding from us?” 

“I don’t know,” she says, sort of honest, she doesn’t know what they know about her and what they don’t. While she certainly isn’t the most comfortable talking about her past, she’s sure she must have told them something over the course of two years. Even if she doesn’t know what

“You’re killing me.” 

After a few more minutes, her phone buzzes against the table as she talks, having had it on speaker. She says her goodbyes to Lloyd and Caroline as she checks it, a text from Pratt. She realizes it’s late now, after the usual shift. 

> _“come to the spread eagle”_

She smiles at the invitation/demand, she remembers what Faith said about their invitation being out of pity, then she shakes it from her head. They’re inviting her out another day, it would have been just as easy to forget her. They haven’t seen her all day and it’s usually out of sight out of mind, but no, Pratt remembered her. 

_“be there soon,”_ she types back and hops up from her place on the floor. Once she’s tugged her jeans back on, shrugged on her jacket, and slipped on her boots; she’s out the door. 

She rides her motorcycle faster than she should, skidding to a stop in meager parking space surrounding The Spread Eagle. Once parked, she makes her way inside, pushing the door open a little harder than needed. She’s grinning ear to ear, energy at an all time high as she steps into the bar. Mary May smiles at her over the bar when she steps in. 

“Hey, deputy.” 

“Hey,” Dahlia offers along with a wave, spotting Pratt and Hudson at the bar. 

“There’s our church girl,” Pratt says, grin pulling at his lips as she settles into the chair next to him. 

“Piss off.” 

“How’d it go?” Hudson asks and Dahlia has to look away from the older deputy as she answers, the long haired woman looking entirely too pretty under the lowlight. 

“Bad, then very bad, then even worse, then surprisingly good.” 

“It actually ended well?” 

“Yeah, after I puked and caught people fucking in the church, things got kinda alright.” 

Pratt and Hudson choke on their beers, the latter’s face curled in disgust while the former looks like he just heard the best news. She didn’t mention names, so she figures there’s nothing too wrong with just saying she caught some vague human beings smashing their genitals together. 

“What?” 

“You caught people fucking?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

“Isn’t that against their rules? I thought they had a no fucking rule?” Hudson pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“If it is, someone’s breaking ‘em.” 

“It’s John,” Pratt blurts out after a swig of beer, “callin’ it now.” 

“Pffft, I didn’t get a good look at who it was, I just left.” 

“Lame.” 

“What makes you think it’s him?”

“From what I hear, dude’s a whore.” 

“Like you have room to talk.” Hudson rolls her eyes, scoffing at Pratt’s assessment. 

“Hey, at least I don’t try to play good Christian boy about it.” 

“That right, if you’re gonna be a whore, be an honest one.” 

“Exactly.” 

They continue talking after Dahlia’s ordered her food, same burger as before. They chat about the day the two had at work; surprise, a whole lot of nothing. Hudson wrote up hunting violations and Pratt handed out tickets. He shows her a few pictures he took of Petunia while he was at the station, her newest little buddy still hanging around the place. She coos and awws at the sweet opossum’s little face, she’s so cute, it should be illegal. 

“So, I gotta ask,” Hudson says after a moment, “did you meet that creepy motherfucker?” 

It’s sad that Dahlia knows exactly who she means. 

“Yeah, I met Joseph, he’s…actually pretty alright.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

“Yeah, I kinda freaked out on them and he was really nice about it,” Dahlia admits, feeling her face warm at the memory of him touching her head. It reminds her of when Lloyd and Whitehorse have given her praise. 

“Wait, you finally find a guy you like here and it’s-”

“Ew, gross, no,” she cuts Pratt off, how could he even imply that, “dude, he’s old enough to be my dad.” 

“Pfff, sorry, sorry, I’m fucking with you.” 

“Hey Rook,” Hudson grabs her attention before she can shove Pratt from his chair, “that’s not what you wore to church is it?” 

“It is, why?” 

“Jesus christ.” 

“Do you own a mirror?” 

“What’s wrong with,” she looks down at her shirt, “oh.” 

The two older deputies bust out laughing as her cheeks color red. She continues to be an idiot, her gray tee shirt has a opossum on it with the words ‘Eat Trash. Hail Satan.’ Not exactly ideal for most church functions. She rests her face in her hand, red faced and chuckling at her own dumbassery. The fact she was even allowed in the church is a testament to their patience, truly. Their food comes out and Dahlia starts gobbling down her burger, burying her humiliation under food. 

“God, you eat like a dog. Chomp, chomp, gone.” 

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” 

“Sorry,” Dahlia swallows at Hudson’s scolding. 

“It really is like trying to tame a kid in a restaurant.” 

“Can everyone stop treating me like a child?” 

“Stop acting like one and I’ll consider it,” Hudson taunts her and she wants to hide under the bar. 

“Awwww, wittle Junior deputy wants to be a big girl.” 

“I’m gonna drown you in your own beer.” 

“Lighten up, Rook,” Hudson tells her smiling, “we even got you something?” 

“I’m scared.” Both of her coworkers giving her mischievous grins is setting off her fight or flight; it’s one thing for Pratt to be trying to tease her but Hudson is usually above their childish shit. 

“No, no, you’ll love it.” 

“For our very mature Junior Deputy,” Hudson say as she hands Dahlia a sticker badge, bright yellow with an image of McGruff the crime dog on it along with the words Junior Deputy.Her face falls and the two older deputies burst into laughter at their own joke. 

“Cute, real, fucking cute,” she’s smiling despite herself as she pockets their gift, “I’ll remember that, assholes.” 

It’s the first time she’s every playfully insulted Hudson, even if she’s being lumped in with Pratt. That ache of a crush is still there, but she finds it’s eased since her first night at The Spread Eagle with her coworkers. 

They continue to laugh and chat late into the night, the moon high in the sky when Dahlia leaves. She’s humming along to her music as she pulls into the trailer park, catching the sight of someone on her porch. Apparently, her porch is the best place in all of Hope County to loiter. As she takes off her helmet and strides that way, Dahlia can more clearly tell it’s Ruth. The blonde woman who greeted her when she put the down payment on the trailer. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Hey, deputy…” Ruth returns, sighing, she doesn’t meet Dahlia’s eyes. Instead, she looks up at the moon, blue eyes set alight under it. 

“Hey.” 

“My dad do that you?” She asks, finally taking a look at Dahlia, looking over her bruises.

“Your dad?” The junior deputy walks closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ruth, gazing out at the night sky. 

“Ben Ramsey, heard you guys locked him up, he busted up a deputy and might actually do some serious time.” 

“Yeah, he got me good.”

“You’re gonna prosecute, right? Full extent?” 

“Yeah,” Dahlia admits, waiting for Ruth’s anger and frustration, for her to lash out at her dad being locked up. 

“Thank fuck….” Ruth’s body goes slack, tension easing as she breathes out her words, a weight off the woman’s shoulders. Dahlia breathes out a short laugh, taken aback. 

“You’re happy about it?” 

“Fuck yeah, I am, that son of a bitch destroyed my life, I-” her voice chokes up, hands clenchings, “he’s gotten away with so much shit over the years and I just…”

Dahlia lets Ruth catch her second wind, to figure out her words, feeling that anger and that rage. She knows it so well, the emotion resonating in her bones as she idly strokes at the burn across her palm. 

“I know, I know, what kind of person wants her own dad in jail.” 

“Nah, I get it.” 

“You get it?” 

“Stepfather for me, but, uh, fucked me up.”

“Really…” she chews her lip for a moment, “he made my childhood hell, I didn’t think he’d ever get real time for it.” 

“We’re gonna push for as much as can get, but, uh, what’s gonna happen with your mom? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

“Fuck if I know, I told her she can move in with me, but…” 

“You’re scared she’s gonna go right back?” 

“Yeah…I don’t know why. She let him beat her, let him beat me, and for what?!” 

“I don’t know. Never quite got it myself.” 

“I just want that son of a bitch to be nothing but a bad memory, for her and me.” 

“I don’t have much in terms of advice, but, be careful. I don’t know if he’ll make bail or just how long it will be before he does get out, depending on what charge we can swing or how the judge feels, but I don’t want him to show up and hurt either of you.” 

“He shows up on my doorstep, I’ll blow his fuckin’ brains out,” her eyes widen as she catches herself, “uh, I probably shouldn’t say that to a cop.” 

“You’re fine,” Dahlia spots Andromeda, remembering the way it’s story resonated with her, “do you know what that constellation is?” 

“I know fuck all about stars, my man.” 

“Same, but, uh, that one is Andromeda, her mom chained her to a rock and left her to be killed by a monster but was saved,” Dahlia picks at her chipped nail polish, watching the starlight glow in Ruth’s eyes, “I know it’s silly, but it resonated with me. Feeling like my mom offered me up to a monster, but she got a happy ending.” 

“Yeah, that is nice… Uh, thanks, I guess for talking to me and,” she shrugs awkwardly, “ya know, locking that asshole up.” 

“No problem and if anything does happen with him, let me know, I got your back.” 

“Thanks,” Ruth squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, “but, uh, I still hate cops, ya know.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Dahlia watches Ruth leave, smoking a cigarette on her porch. She doubts she’ll ever be the greatest of friends with anyone in the trailer park. They’re strong in their feelings of cops and she can’t truly blame them. Even if she tries to be a good cop, she can’t deny the faults within a system she enforces. But, if this has eased even a little of the animosity, she’s thankful. She stamps out her cigarette before turning in for the night. 


	8. Whispers of Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo, since A) I took a break and B) it’s friday the thirteenth, as it was when I posted the first chapter of this is love back in January, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 8 today. Chapter 9 is already done and I’ll be beginning work on chapter 10 soon, as this is my current hyper fixation. I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Oh boy we got some shit today my dudes! Stories/Reference of Past Child Abuse, Animal Death In the Context of Hunting, Homphobic Slurs/Homphobia towards lesbians, and referenced past anti-Semitism. Less important but there’s a pov change and like three different quotes in this chapter, from the Book of Joseph, and two different songs, which is probably a lot but I ain’t editing this shit anymore

Pain cracks through Joseph’s skull late that night, shooting across from each temple, seeming to split his head apart. He sits on the edge of his small bed, a modest bedroom in the back of his church. He knows what it means, he’s grown accustomed to the sharp ringing pain, visions always come with it. They’ve started to come more frequently since The Lamb arrived.

He grabs at his head, as if he could press hard enough to keep his skull together as pain racks him, an instinctual reaction. Pain strikes through and breaks the reality of the world around him, closed eyes starting to see visions of what could be, images of what may await him.

A world anew surrounds him; one changed by the Collapse and washed of sins. Lush and natural, even more beautiful than the world that came before it. Vibrant pink flowers decorate the earth, thick green moss covering trees. A soft pink flowered apple tree stands at the center of the compound, white buildings replaced with hand made little houses.

Men and women are all around, working around New Eden. Parents playing with their children, carrying their babies; loyal followers allowed to pass through the gates and grow their family. Some members bring back hunted animals to be prepared for meals and others tending to gardens.

And then he sees his brothers and sister.

A fact that changes time and time again as his visions come to him in waves. He’s seen New Eden with and without them. He’s seen each of his siblings die time and time again, old and young, premonitions of what will be or what could be.

In this version, this vision, he’s been allowed his siblings. Faith, Jacob, and John talk at a distance where Joseph can’t quite hear the words, only taken in the moment. Jacob and John’s ages showing more clearly in the gray just starting to pepper their hair.

A voice rises above all others, cutting through the mumbled conversation through the compound, and Joseph knows it’s calling towards him. The soft voice calls him a name similar in meaning to his title, but it cuts to his heart so differently.

“Papa!”

Through the eyes of his older self, he can only watch and take in what happens, no control as he turns to see the source. A young boy of about five comes running towards Joseph, bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. Joseph’s body moves of it’s own volition reaching out to hug his son, his son, but before he can feel the embrace of his child the world cracks apart again.

Pain splinters through the world and rips him from the moment, when he opens his eyes again he’s back in his room. And his hands itch to hold his son who’s yet to exist, instead he rubs at his temples, fingers knotting in his own hair as he attempts to soothe the agony within his own head. The only respite being what he hopes is a new promise from his creator. A chance for his family to not only walk with him to New Eden, but the chance to expand it.

He’ll have a son. The very idea soothes his pain and is like a salve to frayed nerves. Becoming an internal mantra as he eases himself back to sleep that night.

Sweat coats Dahlia’s skin as she does another push up, her muscles aching at the workout. She shifts to lay on her back on the living room floor, t-shirt riding up her sweaty stomach. Her second day of no work has turned into an impromptu work out, push up and using doorways for chin-ups. She uses her shirt to wipe sweat off her forehead before grabbing her phone to check the time. Dahlia must have gotten her way through the day, it has to be late by now.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s noon, it’s only fucking noon.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” She screams into a pillow, how the fuck is it only noon? Dahlia looks at the mess of her coffee table, trying to consider what to do just to eat at her time, she could draw again. But her hand is still cramping. She read somewhere you’re suppose to do warm up for drawing, she’ll have to start doing that.

Then she sees the Book of Joseph, her drawing still sticking out of it. She’s burned through her backlog of manga on her phone and fuck, it’s something to do. Joseph seemed like a genuinely sweet man, maybe he has something interesting to say. Music still blasting, because everything in her life requires a soundtrack, she opens the book.

> _“Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows._
> 
> _Be grateful to those who have caused you harm._
> 
> _For it is these sufferings that have led you to me.”_

The first sermon in the book, she chews her lip, it’s not that much different from things Joseph told her yesterday, that he’s thankful her past led her to him. But, something rubs her wrong about the idea of being grateful for her abuse. Not for her, she plans on dying mad about it. She reads onward, an illustration of a flaming capital building surrounded by waves with someone drowning in the foreground. That’s…dramatic.

> _“If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seed’s house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight._
> 
> _They would have seen a man dress in black pants and a white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social service cars, not even police patrols.”_

Dahlia stops almost three pages in as Joseph begins to write about a dying widow who once gave him and Jacob cakes before she grew sick. The picture he’s painted is far too clear and hits too close to home for her to continue, at least for the moment. A belligerent bible thumping drunk of a father who derided Joseph for loving Spiderman comics and beat Jacob’s back for the younger brother’s supposed misgivings.

Father Monroe, her stepfather, wasn’t quite the ruddy faced sloppy drunk that Old Man Seed was. But when Joseph describes Jacob offering his back up for a beating, she nearly feels the bite of leather against her own. _Stripes for the backs of fools_ , is all she hears.

She wants to talk to Joseph, she realizes, thinking of both the beginning sermon passage and how their own pasts match up. Does he really bless the man who hurt him? Is he grateful for Old Man Seed? Maybe that kind of forgiveness and peace with it comes with age or is it just him? Ruth has a similar story as well, a little older than Dahlia, and she holds on to the same anger Dahlia does. Has Joseph managed to let it go? Does he still like Spiderman? Did his father beat the passion for comic books out of him or does he still enjoy them? Its hard to imagine, the intense Joseph Seed casually reading a comic book.

Less than three pages is a pathetic excuse for reading and didn’t pass much time, but it’s intense for her. So, she’d rather just…stare at the wall for a bit until she’s ready to tackle it again.

It’s Saturday night, Pratt and Hudson won’t be going to The Spread Eagle tonight, because no work. Meaning a rather mundane day with no interruptions. Other than a short walk, Dahlia spends the rest of it fucking around on her phone and watching shitty tv; passing out after downing an unevenly heated microwave meal.

Sunday morning rolls around, spent much like the last, Dahlia using her down time and excess energy to work out. It’s important to stay on top of exercising and staying in shape, given her profession, she makes a mental note to order some weights online. There’s not really a proper gym in the county and she doesn’t want to lose muscle.

She’s in the middle of another round of pushups when there’s a knock at her door; she jumps up from her position, skin still slick with sweat as she rushes towards the door. Finally, something to disrupt the monotony.

It’s Pratt standing on her porch, hazel eyes looking her over. She’s expecting a shitty comment on her appearance, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, hair mussed with sweat.

“You need something?” She asks him, slightly out of breath. Dahlia lifts the bottom of her shirt, using it to wipe sweat from her face, breeze skimming the bare skin of her stomach.

“What the hell has you sweating, Rook?” The older deputy chews his lip, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

“I was working out.”

“With a head injury? Seriously?”

“The fuck else am I suppose to do?”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your mind, reason I’m here,” he grins, “throw some clothes on and we can head out.”

“You mind if I shower first?” She asks, while she’s not sure where he plans on dragging her but she’d rather not stink like sweat while she’s there.

“Uh, yeah, sure that’s fine.”

“You wanna wait in here?”

He nods and Dahlia steps aside to let Pratt into her trailer, it’s not the most tidy of place because, well, she’s not the most tidy of people. She can feel the judgement starting to build up as Pratt looks around her messy living room. A pillow and blanket haphazardly on the couch; her duffle bag on the ground with clothes falling out of it. Her table has her sketchbook, thankfully closed, and the Book of Joseph is tucked under it. It’s a messy little nest, but it’s hers.

“Are you sleeping on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, I prefer it,” she explains with a shrug, not really sure how to elaborate on her weird feeling about sleeping in a bed.

“You have a bed, right?”

“Yes, I have a bed, I just, shut up. I don’t barge into your house and start judging how you live,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “just sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dahlia grabs a change of clothes, hearing the couch springs creak as Pratt sits down. It’s weird seeing someone in her trailer. The closest she’s had to visitors have stayed on her porch. Pratt is the first person to be in her actual trailer, he looks immensely out of place and judging by his eyes glancing around, he seems to feel that way too. She tries not to think too hard about it, making a beeline to her bathroom.

She tries to keep her shower short, not wanting to make Pratt wait too long and not wanting him to snoop while he’s left alone. That doesn’t stop her from playing music as she showers, just limiting herself to two songs before she jumps out. A quick dry off and she tugs on her clothes, towel still on her damp hair as she walks back out to her living room.

Pratt, sure enough, has found something to snoop through. Dahlia grimaces at the sight of him picking through her little jewelry box of photos. Was he rifling through her dufflebag? She clears her throat, smirking when he jumps up.

“I was just-”

“Snooping,” she cuts him off, ruffling the towel over her hair.

“It fell out of your bag.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It did...after I kicked it a little, but it did fall out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snatches the little wooden box off the table, Lloyd and Caroline’s photo booklet was on top, so at least she probably avoided him seeing baby photos.

“You, uh, don’t look much like your parents. You adopted or something?”

She can’t help but chuckle as she puts it away; she can’t blame him for thinking Lloyd and Caroline must be her parents. The pair are both about Whitehorse’s age and why else would she have so many photos with a couple that age. But, the couple absolutely look nothing like her. Both fairer skinned and blue eyed; Lloyd with dark strawberry blonde hair and Caroline with light honey blonde locks. Short of some shenanigans the chance of them producing an olive skinned, brown eyed brunette is slim. And while the couple have their share of adopted children; Dahlia isn’t one of them.

“No.”

“Oh, uh…” She can nearly see the gears turning in Pratt’s head, her usual one word style of answering has put Caroline’s devotion in question and Dahlia won’t have that.

“They’re not my parents; legally or biologically.”

“Oh, you just hang out with old couples?”

“Maybe, maybe not, ain’t really any of your business,” she shrugs, “more importantly, where the hell are we supposed to be going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t trust your surprises.”

“Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs all day?”

“Fuck no.”

“That’s what I thought, you ready to go then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she throws the damp towel onto her laundry chair before shoving her feet into her boots, “lets get going.”

She locks up behind Pratt then follows him out to his car. Compared to the last time she was in his car, this is infinitely more relaxing. She hums along to the radio, resisting the urge to sing along. He probably already heard her yelling along to her music in the shower, she doesn’t need to blast his eardrums at close range. After one song ends and another shittier one begins she starts to fiddle with the radio setting.

“The driver is supposed to pick the music,” Pratt tells her as she flips through stations, trying to find a station playing something other than country.

“The driver needs to worry about the road, while I find something worth listening to.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your taste in music is so good.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” she turns to one station and it sounds like a choir.

> _Help me, Faith_
> 
> _Help me, Faith_
> 
> _Shield me from sorrow_
> 
> _From fear of tomorrow_

“Turn that crap off, right now.”

“The hell is that?” It’s not a bad song like technically speaking, but it’s definitely a bit much.

“Peggie station, it's all crap, Eden’s Gate runs it. It’s all their choir music and sermons.”

“Gross, but the song ain’t that bad.”

“You might wanna have your head checked again.”

“Piss off.”

She finds something better, even if she doesn’t necessarily mind Eden’s Gate music, she’d rather listen to something without fear of a sermon coming up after. At the very least, Pratt doesn’t complain about her choice, a few more songs playing before they cross into Holland Valley.

“How’s your impromptu vacation been going?”

“Boring.”

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs, “figured you’d be going stir crazy by now.”

“So, you decided to come end my boredom?”

“No need to sound so excited,” Pratt rolls his eyes, not appreciating her lackluster response.

“Sorry, I, uh, do appreciate it,” she admits, looking out the windows, cheeks warming at it. It’s embarrassing to say that she is genuinely thankful. Hell she nearly jumped up and ran to the door like a dog when he knocked. Boredom is hell.

“Oh, it’s fine, I was bored too.”

They pull into the police station parking lot and she raises an eyebrow at him as he parks. He’s taken her to work? What on earth is he planning?

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re gonna enjoy this, c’mon.”

She follows him out and around the building to the helipad she noticed before, a black police grade helicopter on it. He doesn’t hesitate to climb into the pilot's seat, telling her to get in. She listens, climbing into the seat next to him. It looks like a mess of buttons and controls to her, none of them making sense. But Pratt confidently starts turning switches, lights coming to life in front of her. They’re going for a helicopter ride, holy shit.

“Pffft,” Pratt huffs out a laugh, “we’re not even in the air yet and you’re already grinning.”

“This is okay, right? Like, no one will mind.”

“I’m the only person at the station who can fly, so if they needed it, they’d be calling me anyway. Don’t worry.”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to know I can enjoy this guilt free.”

“And lift off,” Pratt says as he brings the chopper up off of the ground. The station grows smaller and smaller as they ascend up into the air.

“Wow…” Is all as can seem to say at first as the chopper kisses the sky.

They’re surrounded by a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds as Pratt flies across the county. Lush green forests and farms beneath them, mountains along the edges of the county. A top down view of animals running through, specks in their vision. She oohs and awes, unable to help acting like an excited child over the view. They fly along the county, Pratt is kind enough to answer her stupid questions about flying, what buttons and switches mean. She’s certain to a seasoned pilot her naïve question must be frustrating, but he grins with every answer. Before she knows it the sky around them has shifted to an awash of pinks and purples, the sun setting, before a midnight sky takes it place. Brilliant stars twinkling around them, feeling so close, like she could reach out and touch Andromeda.

Once it gets too late, Pratt lands back at the station, her cheeks ache from all the time smiling. He drives her back to the trailer park, the pair in comfortable silence as she hums along to the radio. Her thoughts drifting off as they are so quick to do. Pratt and her butted heads a bit when they first met, but he’s quickly become her closest friend in the county. Their light-hearted bickering and shenanigans have become her favorite part of her days in Hope County.

He walks with her to her trailer, shoulders brushing occasionally as they move. She turns to look at him when they reach her door. Dahlia clenches and unclenches her hands searching for what she wants to say.

“Thanks, a lot, really.”

“You like flying that much?”

“Not just for that, not to be all mushy and crap, but coming out here, keeping me from going nuts, being my friend. It, uh, means a lot, seriously.”

“Eh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, “just watching out for you, probie.”

“Well, I appreciate it, I, uh, know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“No one in this county is.”

“Good to know I fit in, I guess.”

“Uhh, you’re getting there, once you start stinking like beer all day and have a house full of deer heads, we’ll call it good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grins, “night.”

“Night.” She waves Pratt off before going back to her trailer to settle in for the night.

Monday is spent showing up to the station just to play with Petunia behind the building; just laying on the ground while the fluffy opossum crawls on her. She scratches along the marsupial’s back as they nuzzle into her neck.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home relaxing or something?” Beau asks and Dahlia shifts her head back to look at him.

“I am relaxing, what are you doing?”

“Well, everyone asked me to go see what that weirdo deputy was doing, so here I am.”

“Oh no, you hear that Petunia,” she looks at her opossum friend, “people think I’m weird.”

“Yeah, talk to the ‘possum, that’ll really show ‘em.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he just rolls his eyes, leaving her alone for the moment. Pratt and Hudson invite her out to The Spread Eagle once the sun starts to set, but a steady throbbing ache has built in her head, she skipped pain meds. And the idea of the jukebox booming in her skull makes her turn it down for the night, once she’s back to work she’ll treat them to a meal there, she decides on the quiet ride home.

Dahlia wakes up the next day and decides to finally take that hike, wanting to explore some of the mountains and woods that surround the county. The brunt of the trails seem to be within the Whitetail Mountain area up north, the mountains in the Henbane are mostly around that statue and as much as she likes Joseph more than before; the statue is still creepy.

She tucks her sketchpad, pencils, water, and her pain meds in the storage under her motorcycle seat before she drives up to the mountains; the north section of the county is colder, a chill from the air as she rides up. She stops in at an Old Sun Outfitters, buying a little black backpack to carry her stuff in when she hikes.

The woods around her get thicker and thicker as rides further into the mountains, land growing steeper with every minute, civilization sparser and sparser; buildings harder to find, just peeks of wood or cement through trees. The trees clear on her right as a turn of the road leads her to a large parking lot with little hutch and a sign that says, ‘rest area’. The hutch says Valley View Overlook. It’s built at the top of a plateaued piece of land, not as towering as the mountains in the distance, but higher than the meager hills of the valley or river. She parks her motorcycle and packs the bag before taking in the view.

A small navel high fence, she imagines waist high for others, keep animals or children from just running off the side of the mountain. It’s a beautiful sight; she can see why the lot is named after it. She takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air looking out at the soft blue sky that meets the mountains in the horizon; the deep green forests further down. Air so clean and refreshing, but for some reason she finds herself pulling out a cigarette, to fill her lungs with smoke. Too much good needs a bad, she supposes. She watches the white clouds and birds flying through, as she lets smoke settle heavy in her lungs, only parting from the sight when her cigarette threatens to burn her fingers.

She follows along a little beaten trail through the woods, kicking up rocks and crushing grass underfoot as she lets the trees surround her. Grass rustles around where animals sneak through; deer running through, other hikers crossing her path, and hunters packing bucks back home with dogs sniffing along after them.

It doesn’t take long for her to go off the path, just walking in any direction that catches her interest. Deeper and deeper into the woods, following divots and drop offs, walking along the occasional stream of water that passes through the area. Her feet and head start to ache as hours pass, the cool air no longer able to chill her body as exertion coats her skin in sweat.

A hunting stand, one of many, is within the woods. Gray metal built around a tree with a ladder leading up. It’s empty, but if a hunter really needs it, she’ll move along. She climbs up curling her legs under her on the stand as she pulls off her back pack and red flannel, the sleeves now sweaty after her walk. Dahlia ties it around her waist, feeling the cool air on her skin as she takes a deep breath.

She takes a deep swig of water and one of the pain killers. There’s a crush of grass and she looks up to see a group of deer a short distance from the stand. A fawn and what may be younger deer, with a buck among them. The buck’s fur grayer in color than the richer warmer brown of the others. Dahlia gets out her sketchpad and pencils, balancing them on her knee as she takes the drawing the creatures. A calm energy and flow falls over her as she draws, the only sound the animals rustling within the woods. She’s better at drawing people than animals, she realizes, when she can’t quite get the right slope of the buck’s muzzle, but she doesn’t stress herself over it. No one will ever see her wonky deer. She looks up; the buck has gotten much closer, shuffling near the stand.

Dahlia puts her sketchbook aside, half finished wonky deer abandoned, as she moves to lay on her belly over the edge of the hunter’s stand. She stretches her hand out, his antlers high enough for her fingers to just brush the velvety texture. But that’s not what she’s after, wanting to pet the stags head. Dahlia shifts to a knee and a foot, she forces the fingers of one hand into the grating to keep a solid grip on the stand. She leverages herself to lean further and further out, stretching a hand out and nearly hanging completely off the stand. Her fingers just centimeters away from touching the stag’s head.

The fuzz of fur brushes across her fingers and the soft brown eyes looking up at her go blank; blood spraying from the side of the buck’s head as it’s body goes limp to the ground. She can’t help but jump back and fall on her ass; gasping at the now dead deer in front of the stand, the rest of them have scattered at the sight.

Maybe she should have expected it, being in hunter territory, but the closeness of it still startles her. There’s a heavy thud of boots, steady consistent footfalls crushing branches and grass beneath them. Ginger hair with shaved down sides and an army jacket; Jacob Seed.

This is likely the only time she’ll ever be taller than him, watching him from the stand as he shifts a bright red rifle from his hands to on his back. It seems so vivid and ostentatious compared to his utilitarian style of dress. There’s a childish urge to jump on his back and scare him. But, they don’t know each other well and he’s a veteran, so she can’t know how he’d react to the sort of thing. Maybe a boo would be okay, just something small?

“You enjoying the show, honey?”

Dahlia jolts, taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear and chews her lip watching as he starts to gather up the slain deer; then he looks up at her, blue eyes sharp and harsh. All the masculine Seeds have blue eyes and intense stares; but Jacob’s gaze is colder than Joseph’s and more steady than John’s. Something almost predatory to it. 

“I was drawing him,” she says after a moment, looking down at the stag. 

“And I was hunting him.” 

“Still would have appreciated another minute or two,” she says as she grabs her bag, throwing the sketchbook back inside before she jumps off the stand. 

“So, you could flail around and try to pet him for another five minutes.” 

“Hey,” she pouts, she was caught hanging from a hunting stand like the child she is, but, “wait, you saw me?”

He gives a vague grumble of agreeance, more preoccupied with tying up the hooves of his latest hunt to make it easier to carry. 

“And you still shot? You could have shot my hand off.” Has this man never taken a gun safety course, she catches a glimpse of the scope on his rifle, there’s no way he didn’t see how close his shot was to her hand. He chuckles, dry and deep, mocking her. 

“Relax, if I wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead by now.” 

“Wow, that’s not comforting.” 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, standing up and packing the giant deer over his shoulder, like it’s nothing. 

Dahlia reaches out to touch it, fingers brushing through soft fur, no warmth beneath it. She might as well be petting a rug. Jacob starts to walk off and she doesn’t know why, but she follows him. Hands clasped behind her back and walking heel to toe after him. Maybe it’s just because she’s curious about him. He’s the only one of the Seeds not to take a strange interest in her for whatever reason. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, allowing her to follow along after him. Leaves and grass crush under foot as she follows along behind him, curious as to where he’s going or doing. She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s something to do if nothing else. 

“You got somewhere to be?” 

“Not really, no.” She tries to crane her head around, trying to get a better look at his face to gauge his reaction, but their height difference is too big to truly do so. The man has to be around a foot and a half taller than her; he seems even taller than the sheriff.

“Well, I do, so get out of here.” Her smirk drops, she was hoping to see him get more agitated like the youngest Seed brother, but his voice doesn’t rise. Staying the same steady deep timbre.

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere you need to be, sweetheart.”

“The nicknames aren’t really necessary.” She can’t help but say, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, the condescending way he calls her sweetheart and honey make her nauseous.

“Neither is following me like a lost puppy dog; but here you are.” 

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You killed my only entertainment, so it is now.”

He comes to a sudden stop and Dahlia has to stop herself from running into his back; she doesn’t particularly want deer corpse on her face. He turns to face her; expression still the same stern look he usually carries, and she misses his grin when he was talking to kids at the barbecue.

“Look here, deputy, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and irritating me isn’t a habit you want to form. Get out of here.”

“Oh no,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m really scared.”

“Keep pushing, sweetheart, won’t get you anywhere.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Jacob is something wrong,” a voice cuts through their conversation, rough and masculine. And Dahlia see the long-haired man and short haired girl from the barbecue; the ones who shot her dirty looks when she talked back to Jacob.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

“What are you doing here?” The woman asks Dahlia directly.

“Standing.”

“Fallon,” Jacob says the woman’s name, stern tone making her posture snap straighter, “I said it’s none of your concern. Let’s go.”

The three of them start to leave down a path; Fallon and the long-haired man have heavy bucks they pack as well. A hunting trip for Jacob and his…friends? Are they friends? That didn’t seem like friendship, but Dahlia is far from an expert on the matter. She offers a goodbye wave; but Fallon just rolls her eyes. Their steady footfalls leaving the deputy behind.

Well, it staved off the boredom for a while she supposes.

Dahlia lets out a huffy sigh, blowing loose strands of hair from her face as she begins back down the path she came. The sun is setting by the time she’s back to the parking lot and climbing on top of her bike.

Her stomach is growling by the time she’s driving down a main road, she sees the sign for The Grill Steak as she reaches the intersection. Dahlia pulls in, letting her stomach guide her actions, as she’s one to do.

It’s a small restaurant packed with groups of people from friends to families; she can feel the heat of the grill radiating through, the smell of her making her stomach growl. She settles into a booth by herself, when she reads through it the menu is full of gamey meat burgers and steaks. No signs of beef or pork; it’s all bison and deer. She wonders if the cook hunts everything himself, it wouldn’t surprise her, given what she’s seen of the county. He can hear the cook yelling something she can’t understand from the kitchen. Dahlia settles on ordering a cola and a deer burger; thinking about the hunted stag she saw Jacob kill. 

As she waits on her food, the chatter of a group catches her ear. They’re not from Hope County; the different cadences of how they speak mingled with fancy latin technical terms tells her as much. Trying to be discreet; she glances at them over her shoulder. A group of four; two women and two men all around the same age. Dahlia’s not the brightest bulb in the pack by her own admission, but when she hears the words corvids and lupine, she realizes they’re talking about animals. It doesn’t shock her, given the abundance of wildlife in the county, certainly people would come to research them. 

The door to the restaurant swings open and a man comes walking in, shoulders back and footfalls confident. It reminds her clearly of Jacob, the walk of a soldier, though this man isn’t quite as intimidating a figure. Older than Dahlia, though most people are, with a full dark beard and long scraggly dark hair. He doesn’t bother to take a seat at a booth or look at a menu, only giving a single wave to the cook in the back as he makes a beeline to the group. Dahlia shifts a little further down into her booth, not that anyone could truly tell she’s eavesdropping, but it gives a little more secrecy to it. 

“You the conservationists?” 

“Yeah, we’re studying the wildlife here… And you are?” 

“Eli, not here to ‘cause trouble or anything like that, just wanted to give some friendly advice.” 

“Friendly advice?” 

“You need to watch yourselves out in those woods.”

“Pffft.” 

“We’re well aware of how dangerous the wildlife out here can be. You-” 

“No, you aren’t. There’s wolves-”

“And bears and mountain lions, oh my,” one of them jokes, “look, we know what we’re doing.” 

“You’re not listening, they’re not regular wolves. They’ve been trained to kill and hunt people down on sight. Even if you avoid ‘em, you get on the cult’s bad side and they’ll send ‘em after you. You gotta be careful out here.” 

“Okay, sure,” the eyeroll is nearly audible, “we’ll keep an eye out for killer cult wolves, don’t worry.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, alright.” 

The man, Eli walks away, and Dahlia considers stopping him. Admitting her nosiness and ask him some of the million questions going through her mind. Surely by cult, he means Eden’s Gate, right? Dahlia can’t imagine who else he could mean. They’re small and close knit, but they’re not a cult, right? Cults imply something more out there or intense; they’re just a little Christian church. Joseph may have his own book, but they still follow Christian ideas of sins and scripture.

And wolves? How could they possibly be training wolves? It’s all so ridiculous and asinine, making gears spin and churn in her head until they overheat, but it was said with such conviction. By the time she brings herself to make a noise, Eli has already left, and it’s probably for the best. It’s too crazy to be true. Maybe he’s a tinfoil hat wearing type of guy, a conspiracy theorist like the Zip guy who leaves a newsletter in every damn corner of the county, screaming about chemtrails and baby farms.

She fills her stomach, deciding to leave that as it is, finally returning to her trailer late that night. A restless night of sleep with images of wolves and deer creeping around through her brain, nothing concrete enough to latch onto, but enough to unsettle.

A boring morning leads into a boring afternoon, time blurring before the sun has set and Dahlia’s finding herself pulling up to The Spread Eagle to catch her coworkers after their shift. She’s popped enough pain killers that the throb of music and noise is welcomed instead of irritating. A smile already gracing her lips when she catches Pratt and Hudson shooting the shit in the bar’s lowlight. As she sneaks up closer to them, their conversation starts to be audible over the tunes playing through the bar.

“I bet you break before then,” Hudson says, a teasing grin directed at Pratt.

“Hey, it’s only six months.”

“Please, you’re weak and you know it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Dahlia strikes, throwing her arms over Pratt’s shoulders, effectively hugging him from behind and leaning her weight into him. He’s warm and Dahlia can’t fight the impulse to squeeze him a little tighter. She breathes in the faint smell of coffee and cologne that still cling to him; comforting after so much time spent around him.

“Jesus fuck, when’d you get here?” Pratt blusters and at this close of a range Dahlia can see his cheeks pinkening under the scruff of his beard. Does this bother him?

“Right now.”

“You decided to come hang out again?” Hudson asks, grinning at the flustered Pratt.

“Mmhmm,” Dahlia hums into Pratt’s shoulder, pressing her face into him, “bored.”

“Get off me,” he grumbles and reaches back to swat at her hip.

“Ugh, buzzkill,” she bitches as she detaches from Pratt and climbs onto a bar stool, “so what the hell are you guys making bets about?”

Pratt coughs, trying to dislodge something from his throat, and Hudson laughs, “yeah, Pratt why don’t you tell her about our bet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rook.”

“We still need to set an amount.”

“Fifty,” Pratt suggests and Dahlia wants to know even more what the hell they’re making bets about.

“Mmm, hundred.”

“Fine, if you’re comfortable losing that much.”

“Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s gonna drive me crazy now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and orders food, stuffing her face as she listens to her coworkers fill her in on anything of interest she’s missed during her off time. It’s not much, as usual, the workload in Hope County is pretty low stakes. Hunting violations, speeding tickets, and the like. Seems like her assault is about the most interesting case in a while. Dahlia’s tempted to ask if they know anything about wolf attacks but bites her tongue before she does. Hope County is filled with wildlife, wolf attacks have no doubt occurred to some degree and if she mentions the idea of trained cult wolves, they might start to think she’s buying into the conspiracy shit.

“Stop,” Pratt says suddenly, putting hand on Dahlia’s knee, “you’re shaking the whole damn bar.”

Her leg she realizes has been bouncing the whole time, the hike helped, workouts help, but she’s still breaming with pent up energy. There’s a rustle of movement and Dahlia is drawn to the open floor near the jukebox, she’s seen a few people dance here and there, a couple now and again swaying to softer tunes while she’s been here. But, it’s more crowded tonight, people laughing and dancing together.

“People are dancing,” she states the obvious.

“It’s ladies’ night, women drink free, so everyone’s extra, uh, energetic tonight,” Hudson tells her.

An upbeat song starts and Dahlia’s up in the next breath, she needs to move, burn off excess energy. And while her favorite club in Lake Charles isn’t exactly available to her anymore, she’ll jump at the chance to lose herself in a song.

> _You should be wilder, you're no fun at all._

Dahlia’s singing along as she sways and shifts through the crowd, body moving instinctually to the beat. There’s a woman about Dahlia’s age, long blonde hair and brown eyes, dancing as well and the deputy finds herself gravitating towards her.

> _Yeah, thanks for the input._
> 
> _Thanks for the call._

She asks low into the woman’s ear, so she can be heard over the music, if she can dance with her. The response is a smile, lighting up the girl’s face, a nod of her head and then she’s pulling Dahlia in by the hips.

> _With dull knives and white hands_
> 
> _The blood of a stone_
> 
> _Cold to the touch, right_
> 
> _Right down to the bone_

And then she loses herself in it. In the music that fills the bar, the feeling of a stranger touching her, the slide of her feet as she moves, the way hips knock together, the scratch in her throat as she sings lyrics in the woman’s ear, their grins as they laugh and bump noses together. It’s fun and it’s silly, a reason to move and forget life for a moment.

> _Cause you give me the electric twist and it kicks and it kicks like a pony._
> 
> _And true, you might run away with it, it's a risk it's a risk yeah._
> 
> _Because it kicks yeah._
> 
> _It really kicks yeah._

Dahlia spins the woman with a laugh, before pulling the woman close against her again, wide smiles and bright eyes as their foreheads touch. There’s sweat sticking to their skin as the song winds down. Panted breaths ghosting over each other’s faces as they come down from exertion.

> _And the touch of your lips it's a shock not a kiss_
> 
> _It's electric twist, it's electric twist_

“How much I gotta pay to see you kiss?!” A loud voice booms out, making Dahlia and her dance partner of the night separate. There’s a man, couldn’t be older than his mid twenties, sitting at the bar with his legs sprawled open drinking a beer at the table between the bar and the dance area. His eyes linger and look over both women’s bodies

“Can I help you?” Dahlia asks and furrows her brows, glowering at the man as she draws closer.

“Oh just enjoying the show, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart and I’m not a damn show.”

“Pfff, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he turns back to his table and rolls his eyes, as if Dahlia’s the problem, “fucking dykes.”

The junior deputy grits her teeth and she sees from her peripheral the woman rubbing the back of her neck, letting her bangs fall into her face looking like she’d rather disappear.

“The fuck did you call us?” She can’t stop herself from speaking, barely managing to reign her anger in enough not do something worse.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pratt’s voice cuts through as the man starts to turn to retort, the warmth of her coworker’s hand wraps around the clenched fist she didn’t realize she had raised.

“Is something wrong?” Mary May calls out, starting to walk out from behind the bar.

“Everything’s fine,” Pratt responds before Dahlia can say anything and when she starts to speak, he looks at her to whisper, “you’re barely three weeks into your job, you really wanna be getting into bar fights?”

“He ca-”

“I heard what he said, Rook, but it ain’t worth your job.”

“You’re right,” she gnaws on her lip and looks down on the ground, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I just don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“I need some fresh air.”

Dahlia leaves The Spread Eagle, noticing the woman she danced with has already vanished, unwilling to deal with the bullshit. A cool breezes ghosts over her sweaty skin as she sits down on the porch steps at the front of the bar; running her hands through her hair as she fights to ease her nerves. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket

There’s a crush of footsteps as she lights one, bringing it to her lips, shiny black leather boots entering her vision.

“Dep-yoo-tee.”

“You Seeds can just smell when I’m sad, can’t you?” She teases looking up to see John, the neon bar sign setting his face aglow in the night as he chuckles at her.

“Not my intention, but if you’re in need of a talk, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You weren’t coming out here to harass Mary May again, were you?”

“Deputy,” he puts his hand to his chest cartoonishly dramatic in his hurt, “h-harassment? That’s ridiculous. am I not allowed to visit with Ms. Fairgrave and just discuss our difference of opinions.”

His voice is ramping up in pitch as he defends himself and Dahlia can’t help but smile, appreciating the distraction from her own troubles.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mary May would have a different of opinion about that one. We still gotta talk about members stealing booze.”

“Our members would do no such thing; and I assure you, if there’s any harassment here, we’re the victims. We’ve been insulted, had our sermons interrupted, our practices mocked, Mary May herself once showed up our church simply to cause trouble.”

“Okay, okay, it’s a two-way street, I get it. Sit, we can chat for a bit,” she pats the section of porch step beside her and reluctantly after a beat of silence, he sits down, “so, Mary May caused trouble for you guys?”

“Yes, yes, she has and she’s not the only one; the people of this county have persecuted me and my family since we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, no one should mistreat you that way,” she looks him in the eye as she speaks, “and if it ever happens again, I want you to call down to the station, ask for me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to know you’re on our side.”

“Ah, ah, I’m on everyone’s side. Mary May is owed the same respect as you and your family; and if you cause issues for her, I won’t hesitate to intervene for her sake as well. I’m here to keep everyone safe. Got to treat everyone like you wanna be treated, the whole spiel.”

“I know you’re not preaching biblical principles to me, dep-yoo-tee.”

“Not biblical, just a little maturity.”

“Are you implying I’m immature.“

“You’re a grown man spatting with a woman ten or more years younger than you; throwing a tantrum and pointing fingers when you’re told to behave.”

“First of all, I’m not that old,” Dahlia raises an eyebrow at him, “don’t look at me like that, I’m 32. Secondly, I am not a child. Mary May has-“

“And if she does something again, now that I’m here, let me know and I will help. But her actions don’t justify yours.”

“Fine, I’ll be sure to hold you to that promise, then.”

“I mean it’s less a promise and more so doing my job, but alright.”

She breathes out a plume of smoke, making sure to aim away from John’s face, his blue eyes track the movement and the nicotine fumes that escape into the air. An ex-smoker, she deems as she watches him staring at her lips and the cigarette between her fingers.

“You want a smoke?” She asks, offering her pack of cigarettes.

“Smoking is forbidden in Eden’s Gate.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tattooed fingers pick out a cigarette and she lights it for him with a grin, watching him take a deep inhale and blowing out the smoke that fills his lungs. The soft rise of his chest and the gray clouds that billow out from parted lips. She notices for the first time the freckles on his neck and chest, shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose them. There’s thin fresh scratches along his hands and forearms, too superficial and fresh to match the deeper worn in scars, they look like cat scratches. And yeah, he seems like a cat guy.

“So, now that you’ve berated and tempted me, deputy,” he speaks after an exhale of smoke, “why were you out here pouting?”

“BREH!” She plops her back down on the porch with a vague animal long groan and throws her arms over her eyes, cigarette still between two fingers, must he remind of her own issues.

“Well that certainly wasn’t immature or dramatic.”

And she laughs, because he’s right, she can preach maturity all she wants to him. But, she’s still a brat herself. She’d justify herself with their massive age difference, because no way he’s thirty-two, but that feels flimsy at best. They’re both just two temper tantrum throwing children, hell they’re even both fibbing about their ages. Though, she suspects his own much more severe than the few months she adds to her own.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You know,” he lays back on the porch, matching her position, “I take the confessions for our church, if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, I’m the man to talk to.”

“Not much to say; guy called me a slur, I nearly throttled him.”

“Someone else’s actions don’t justify your own,” he parrots her words back to her.

“Yeah, someday I’ll follow my own advice.”

“Has that happened before?”

The gears in her brain churn, she’s been called many a thing, but her sexuality has been one of the less insulted facets of who she is.

Her stepfather, as religious as he was, was adamant on his hatred of gay people. But her own disinterest in exploring her sexuality or romance saved her from his scorn in that area, his focus more on the other various things he found deplorable about her.

Her mother’s side is Ashkenazi Jewish, and Dahlia remembers the few people of her stepfather’s church who despite her mother converting were disgusted their preacher would marry a Jewish woman. A handful leaving the church, a few sticking by just to call Dahlia and her mother slurs when their backs were turned.

The nightclub she favored in Louisiana was considered a gay bar, though not exclusive to LGBT folks. Women dancing with women, men dancing with men, men and women dancing; and a healthy amount of people who didn’t quite fit either label. Only one-night sticks out, a car speeding past the line outside the bar just to scream a slur out the window. 

Maybe what bothered her most was the boldness. This wasn’t someone whispering when they thought Dahlia couldn’t hear, and this wasn’t a man just screaming out at the public as he speeds away. Just a man emboldened and willing to hurt her in front of a bar filled with people.

“We’re blocking the door.”Everything else died on her lips; unable to spill her guts.

“And we weren’t while you were lecturing me?”

Her phone buzzes in her jacket as she brings her cigarette back into her mouth, unwilling to justify her evasiveness to a man she barely knows, she answers a number she doesn’t know at all.

“Hello?” She says around her smoke.

“H-hello, is this a deputy?” A soft broken voice, she remembers from the diner, asks her and Dahlia sits up, tension pricking at the back of her neck.

“That’s me, Cassie?”

“You remember me…”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I…” a beat of silence and a choked sob comes next, “no, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m not okay, I-“

“Where are you?” Dahlia’s on her feet, heartbeat in her throat as she waves off John’s furrowed brows and concern, running to her bike.

“I’m at the diner. I didn’t know where else to go…”

“I’m headed your way now, Cassie, are you safe?”

“I…I don’t know…I…”

Her voice breaks out into sobs again as Dahlia starts her engine, slams on her helmet, and switches her phone to the speaker in her helmet. The girl’s cries echoing around her as her wheels kick gravel across the parking lot, speeding out of Falls End.


	9. That Melts To A Shriek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is killing meeeeee~ But hey writing fic instead of writing my essays due next week is a coping strategy, a bad one, but aye. 
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings: Implications of abuse, not sure the best way to word this; acts of violence/property damage done against cops for being cops but very nearly hurt/killed a civilian.

Dahlia skids her bike to a stop in the diner parking lot; Cassie is sitting in the dirt just outside the building with her knees pulled up to her chest. She parks and makes a beeline to the girl, as she pokes her head up, looking at the deputy through a curtain of dark curly hair. Her cheek is red, just beginning to bruise, the imprint of a hand visible in the moonlight. **  
**

“Cassie,” Dahlia speaks her name delicately, seeing the tears tracking down the girl’s face. And she sinks down next to her and hugs her. Cassie hugs her back and sobs into Dahlia’s shoulder; trying to talk but everything muffles through chokes of crying.

Eventually, Cassie’s tears slow and her sobs lessens, fading into soft hiccups as she clings to Dahlia. 

“I know it’s hard, but can you tell me what happened?” Dahlia asks once the young woman has calmed. 

“My mom,” she wipes away her tears as she breaks their embrace, “I, I guess, I crossed a line. She kicked me out.” 

“She hurts you?” 

“She’s intense….I guess.” 

“She’s put her hands on you.” 

“Yeah.” 

“A lot?” 

“Yeah…” Dahlia wipes away the fresh tears that fall from the girl’s eyes, heart breaking for her. 

“You didn’t cross any line, you know that, right? Nothing you’ve done makes it okay.” 

“I just wanted to keep one paycheck, one, that didn’t have to go towards her bills or her clothes, or her whatever. Just one I could keep for myself and it was too much to ask and now…,” she searches for her next words, “I don’t know where to go…” 

There’s no homeless shelters in Hope County, no emergency housing for people struggling, the exact reason so many of the drifters in the area sleep in abandoned train cars. It’s ridiculous, no rehabs despite the county having a drug problem and no shelter for people who need it. How the fuck are people supposed to get through?

“You can stay with me,” Dahlia offers, she sleeps on the couch anyway, no reason not to offer her bed to someone in need. 

“No, I, I couldn’t. I bothered you enough, I-“ 

“Nonsense, we need to get you somewhere safe and I can’t think of anywhere safer, right now. Unless you wanna go out of county.”

“No, no, god no, I don’t wanna leave Hope…” 

“I ain’t got much, but I got room for you.” 

“Thanks…” 

“You got anything with you?” Dahlia asks, when she notices all Cassie has are the clothes on her back, a thin jacket thrown over her waitress uniform. 

“No…couldn’t grab anything…” 

“Okay, then, we’ll make do tonight and tomorrow, I’ll see about getting your clothes back. That alright with you?” 

“Yeah…just don’t…” 

“I won’t do anything crazy, promise.” 

“Okay…” 

“Here you,” Dahlia says, handing over her motorcycle helmet to Cassie. She takes it and Dahlia knows Cassie is taller, a little older too, but in this moment, she seems so small and young, almost like a child. 

Once the helmet is secure, Dahlia gets on her bike, allowing Cassie to climb on the back of it, instructing the girl to hold on as tightly as she can. Thin arms wrapping tight enough to dig into Dahlia’ s skin. The night air is cold, Cassie’s body all that much warmer in comparison as it presses in against and around the deputy. 

There are a few eyes watching the girls as they ride into the trailer park, Dahlia coming to a stop by her porch. She’s gentle as she helps Cassie off the motorcycle, taking the helmet from her, the taller girl’s dark eyes dart around nervously, straying near where a Moonflower resident is glaring at the pair. Dahlia rubs a hand through the back of Cassie’s hair, ruffling the dark curls, mimicking Sheriff Whitehorse and his method of calming her. If it works for her, maybe it can help Cassie. 

“Don’t worry about them, go on inside, I’m gonna lock up my bike okay.”

Cassie nods her head and walks off into the trailer. Dahlia catches eyes with the man who was glaring and she glares right back, flipping him off before locking up her bike. She could give a damn less what anyone does to her, but she’s not going to let them give Cassie hell. The girl has been through enough. 

The older girl is on the couch when Dahlia walks back into the trailer, Cassie’s eyes looking over everything. 

“Hey, you, uh, want anything to drink or eat? I don’t know how to make coffee, but there’s coke, water, uhhh…?” Dahlia pauses, arm still gestured outward as she tries to think of what else she can offer. 

“Actually, I just wanna grab a shower and sleep, if that’s alright.” 

“Of course, I’ll go grab some clothes you can sleep in, the bathroom is just right here,” Dahlia tells her, tapping a hand to the bathroom door. 

“Thanks.” 

Dahlia scurries off to rummage through her clothes, finding warm oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants, finding the warmest but least…Dahlia’s aesthetic to offer Cassie. She knocks on the bathroom door, giving Cassie a warning before she opens the door and quickly drops the change of clothes in the room before scurrying off. Trying to be welcoming, homely, nice, she doesn’t even know; she tries to get some food together. Store bought cookies and instant bag mix cocoa with hot water. It’s bad and shoddy, but she doesn’t have much to offer in the way of hospitality. This entire night has been a whiplash for her and she can’t even imagine what it must be doing to Cassie, she doubts shitty hot chocolate or mass produced cookies can fix it, but it’s something. 

A few moments pass, Dahlia cramming cookies in her mouth as she waits, and finally Cassie leaves the shower. Despite being taller than the deputy, the baggy black clothes look big on her, the skulls along the sleeves don’t suit the woman much either. 

“Thanks for the clothes.” 

“No problem, uh, sorry they’re…so, me, I guess?” 

Cassie laughs and a bubble of tension bursts inside of Dahlia, her shoulders finally able to relax as she smiles back. It no longer feels like walking on eggshells around a scared animal, Cassie at once seems more comfortable and happy even if only for a moment. 

“It’s okay,” Cassie tells her after a moment, “seriously, I just appreciate, all of this. Don’t worry so much.” 

“Hey, I’m happy to help, uh, help yourself to anything I shitty whipped together and oh I know. I need to show you where you can sleep,” the deputy fumbles about and then walks down to the bedroom, opening the door, “I know it ain’t much, but hey, bed’s a bed, right?” 

“You have a second bedroom?” 

“Huh, oh nah, I sleep on the couch.” 

“You don’t have too, I don’t expect you to give up your bed for me, I-“ 

“No, no,” Dahlia gently touches Cassie’s shoulder before she can get too worked up, “I just do that, nothing to do with you.” 

“Oh….that’s…weird.” 

“I appreciate your honesty…I think?” Dahlia makes a huffy laugh, unable to hold down the corners of her mouth, the little insult? Dig? Whatever, someone might call it has brought a bit more levity to this and fuck knows the situation needs it. 

There’s not much conversation for the rest of the night; Cassie visibly exhausted, only grabbing a cookie before excusing herself to sleep for the night. Dahlia eventually falling asleep on her couch later that night. 

It’s back to work the next day, Dahlia planning on making a visit to Cassie’s mom during a quiet moment, claiming it as a lunch hour. She has no intention of using force or being aggressive, but she knows her uniform could add some….incentive for someone to be more helpful than harmful towards her. 

Maybe it’s that, knowing she’ll want the full effect of it, or maybe it’s because she missed working, but she wears her uniform the proper way and with a bit more pride than she did before. She says goodbye to Cassie, the words clumsy and stumbling from her lips, as she tries to grow more comfortable with someone else in her home. 

The morning hours pass by without much of note, harassing Pratt whenever the time presents itself and searching for affordable housing or shelters, or whatever the hell is available for Cassie. And she comes to the same conclusion she had when searching for her own housing ; The Moonflower is the absolute most dirt cheap. 

A buzz and crackle over the radio, dispatch starting to break through. 

“Boshaw’s parked out in Falls End at his bullshit again.” Dispatch doesn’t even pretend to have decorum and Dahlia knows there’s more than one Boshaw, the owners of the Moonflower being Boshaw’s themselves, but given his history and the tone she immediately thinks of Sharky. 

“Oh god, really, can no one else go?” Pratt asks, looking like he wants to jump into traffic more than deal with this. 

“Nope, everyone else passed the buck, so just go tell him to scram.” 

“Fine, fine, fine.” 

“It that Sharky guy?” Dahlia asks once Pratt starts to drive. 

“Un-fucking-fortunately, pain in my goddamn ass.” 

“He stealing again or…?” 

“Hmm,” there’s a sudden glint in Pratt’s eyes, a smirk on his face and Dahlia already regrets coming into work, “actually, this seems like a good welcome back for you, Rookie.” 

“I’m gonna want to strangle you after this, aren’t I?” 

“Definitely.” 

She groans as the police cruiser makes it’s way through Falls End, ultimately coming to a stop in a store parking lot, a few other cars are around but it’s mostly deserted. Pratt points out a dark green jeep within the lot. 

“That’s Boshaw’s truck, go knock on the window and tell him to scram.” 

“Jeep…” 

“What?” 

“You called it a truck, that’s not a truck, that’s a jeep.” 

“Does it fucking matter?” 

“Not really, but it bugged me, and I don’t know why.” 

“Go knock on the fucking window.” 

“What’s he even doing? Drugs? Or?” 

“Go knock and find out.” 

“I swear to god,” Dahlia grumbles and finally opens the cruiser door, she has no idea what the fuck she’s walking into. 

She’s able to see Boshaw through the driver side window of his jeep, eye closed and head leaned back. Dahlia speeds up, she’s heard of residents overdosing in their cars, he never struck her as a hard drug user but one can never really tell. Dahlia raises her fist to knock on the window and then she sees it. Boshaw’s hand rubbing up and down the length of his dick. This is her life. 

“What the fuck!” She yells out and closes her eyes, because she does not need the image of his dick burned into her brain, she’s still dealing with the image of John fucking Holly rattling around in there. What is wrong with people? 

“Shit,” she hears him curse, a shuffling of something, a window being rolled down, “what the hell-“ 

“Get the fuck out of here or I’m charging you public indecency, right fucking now, christ!”

She waits until she hears an engine starting up and then makes a beeline back to the cruiser, not wanting to even chance seeing that weirdo’s dick again. Dahlia stomps her way back to the patrol car, Pratt’s laughing hitting her as soon as she opens the door. She kicks into the car, not hard, just a quick jab of her boot into his arm before she pulls back. 

“What the actual fuck, Pratt!?” 

“What, get an eyeful?” 

“What the actual fuck, does he just do…that!?” She’s cringing as she climbs into the passenger side seat. 

“Yeah, he just, is like that if he isn’t jerking off in public, he’s setting something on fire. Or both.” 

“Dear lord, what is wrong with people? What’s wrong with you doing that to me, asshole!?” 

“Ah, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’ll buy you lunch.” 

“Save your apology food for tonight, I got something to take care of during lunch.” 

“So, you’re abandoning work?” 

“For an hour max and you can call me if anything comes up.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just giving you shit, it’s fine.” 

She rolls her eyes as they go back to the station, just a short drive away in the small town. The young deputy waves off her patrol partner as she climbs onto her bike, making sure her ringer is turned on this time, just in case something does manage to come up. Cassie gave her the address this morning and she quickly finds the little house surrounded by woods, as so many of the houses in Hope County are. 

Dahlia lets out a breath before knocking her knuckles against the door, firm and heavy despite the knot twisting her insides. After a few moments pass and then finally the door opens; an older woman staring back at Dahlia. The resemblance between her and Cassie is strong; the same pitch black hair and dark eyes, just to an older face. 

“Oh god, she didn’t drag you all into this did she?” Her words drip with condescension and venom and a muscle in Dahlia’s cheek twitches, her jaw tight. 

“I’m sorry to bother you ma’am, but I was hoping to collect Cassie’s clothes and personal items.” 

“Pff, what’d she tell you, some sob story, I’m sure.” 

“This isn’t a criminal matter,” yet, Dahlia would like to add, but decorum or something, “if that’s what you’re concerned about and I don’t have a warrant either, for full disclosure. I’m just kindly asking to get her things, I can collect them myself or you can hand them to me if you’d rather I not enter the home, whatever you like.”

“You can come on in, I don’t have anything to hide,” Cassie’s mother lets her in. 

“Thank you so much, where is her room, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Right this way, I swear she’s so fucking dramatic.” Her mother bitches and complains, taking Dahlia there and showing her an open duffle bag that she can put clothes in. 

“I just know she asked me to get her things.” 

“I’m so sorry she dragged you into this deputy, I’m sure you have better things to do.” Her mother talks as Dahlia tries to gather as much as she can into the bag, not only clothes but things that could be important, books and a laptop. 

“I’m always happy to help out where I can, thank you so much for your time and patience, ma’am.” 

A hand catches Dahlia’s bicep, Cassie’s mom stopping her. She turns to look, not sure what exactly is going on now. 

“So, where is she staying?”

“I don’t know ma’am, I was only asked to bring her things to the police station, but I assure you she’s in a safe place. No worries. Have a lovely day.” 

Dahlia pulls away from the woman’s grip and leaves the house, she keeps an eye over her shoulder as she leaves, insuring that the mother isn’t following her. Just in case she takes a few odd turns to make sure and then finally makes her way back to the Moonflower. 

She’s compelled to knock on her own trailer door, not sure what Cassie might be doing with her alone time. Cassie’s dark eyes peek through the window and Dahlia waves, before the door opens. The girl’s head tilted to the side slightly, eyebrow raised. 

“Did you forget your key?” 

“No, I uh, just wanted you to know I was here, I guess.” 

“Okay, uh, you really act like a guest in your own house, don’t you?” Cassie points out as Dahlia walks into the trailer. 

“Ehhh, like ya know,” she makes a vague noncommittal wiggly gesture with her shoulders, “anyway, I got your clothes. No trouble, no issues, check through and make sure I grabbed everything.” 

“Thanks, really, you have no idea how much this means to me,” Cassie gushes as she looks through it. 

“It’s not problem at all, there is one thing I wanna talk to you about.” 

“What’s up?” 

“So, I’ve been trying to look around, see what options are available for you to move into. The cheapest housing in Hope is right here, if you wanna save up to rent a trailer. Then things get pricier, you’re looking at the trailers at Silver Lake which are twice as much, and even more than that for renting an apartment in Falls End or god forbid you’re trying to buy a house.” 

“I…don’t really wanna live here on my own… The people here are…” 

“Rough?” 

“We’ll go with that. But, it’s not like I can afford anything else.” 

“Well, there’s affordable housing like section eight in the bigger places, b-“ 

“I don’t wanna leave Hope either, I-, oh god.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, I’m not trying to freak you out or overload you. You don’t have to know right now, you don’t have to know anytime soon. You can stay here as long as you need, no rush or pressure. I just wanted to let you know what I found.” 

“Thanks, I just gotta save up some money and then…” 

“Hey, I still got some time for my lunch break, I’ll treat ya if there’s anywhere you wanna go.” 

“Uh, I could go for some pizza.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

Dahlia takes them both to the 8-Bit Pizza Bar, the rest of her lunch break isn’t very long, so they don’t get much time to chat. Finishing off a pizza and talking about video games before Dahlia has to drop Cassie back off at the trailer to head back into work; warning her new roommate that she’ll be going to The Spread Eagle after her shift. And finding out what she can bring Cassie home for dinner. 

Whitehorse is out in the bullpen style offices when she arrives back to the precinct, discussing something with an officer. She waits as patiently as her baseline personality will allow her, unable to help tapping her fingers against her thigh, also brimming with some sort of uncontainable energy. Surely, Whitehorse might know someplace Cassie can turn to? Someplace that can help her. 

“Something on your mind, Rookie?” 

“Yeah, you remember that waitress, Cassie?” 

“Something happen with her?” There’s a furrow in his brows and a clench in his jaw, worry and concern darkening his eyes. 

“She called me, her mom hurt her, threw her out, she’s not interested in pressing charges. So, she’s staying with me right now, safe. But, uh, she’s…not really happy at the Moonflower. Rough folks ya know, give her dirty looks ‘cause she’s hanging out with a cop, that whole mess. So, I was wondering if there’s literally anything available to help her out?” 

“I’m sorry to say, there’s not a hell of a lot around here, Rook. Moonflower’s cheapest place she’d find to live, but as far as charity goes, Hope County runs low on it. Churches use to help out when they could, you can always try with them, but not sure they can afford to help anymore.” 

“Never thought I’d be upset at a lack of religious involvement in anything, but what do you mean they can’t afford it.” 

“Most of ‘em are bleeding members. Pastor Jerome’s church in town and the old Lamb Of God Church only got a few regulars right now. Most folks jumped to Eden’s Gate.” 

“Does….Eden’s Gate do any sort of help?” 

Dahlia raises an eyebrow, Joseph certainly seems nice. The way Layla and Waylon talked, the church is no stranger to helping the crestfallen. Certainly, they do some sort of outreach? Even the worst of churches tend to do something; hell her own shitty step-dad’s church helped rebuild the community after the hurricanes. It’s good PR and a way to draw people in. 

“Sure, but for most people they’re a last resort and for good reason.” 

“’Cause they’re buzzkills and no one likes them?” 

“That’s one way to put it,” he gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze, “good luck and if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know, alright?” 

“Will do, thanks, Sheriff.”. 

Later in the night, shift ending with little trouble, the three deputies make their usual Spread Eagle trips. But Dahlia can’t seem to settle. She assumed it’d feel easy and nice to be back to her completely usual routine, a celebration when she returned, but everything draws her mind back to Cassie. Dahlia can’t help but feel guilty when she thinks about it, despite opening her home to the older girl, she can’t say she’s been there much. Having to go to work today and only sparing her a half hour for lunch. And now she’s out with friends… She tries to focus on what Pratt and Hudson are saying, but only finds herself worrying about Cassie. She’s alone in an unfamiliar place… probably still scared and worried about every shadow. 

“You alright, Rook, you seem out of it.” 

“Yeah, uh, actually, my head is starting to hurt, injury and all that. So, if it’s cool, I’m gonna split early tonight.” 

“Alright, but if you think you’re getting a rain check on that free food, you’re out of your mind,” Pratt taunts her and she laughs, flicking his ear. 

“Somehow I’ll live, see you guys tomorrow.” 

She orders some food to go for her and Cassie then heads out. There’s that familiar end of shift exhaustion as she pulls into the Moonflower, bones and muscles always a little leaden. The desire to just stuff her face and veg out in front of the tv for a while. It’s an all too familiar feeling of trudging back to her trailer, but this isn’t the same as all those nights. 

Darkness and silence don’t greet her as she opens the door, the clawing feeling of loneliness doesn’t strike her like a snake hiding in underbrush. Her trailer is alive, it seems, lights and tv on, brightness and a burble of noise. Cassie sitting on the couch, curled up as some romantic comedy plays on the tv. Her entire body turning to greet Dahlia, bright eyes and a soft smile welcoming the deputy. 

“Hey, I thought you were gonna be late?” 

“Yeah, turns out I wasn’t feeling it tonight, brought dinner though,” Dahlia shows the bag off, “what’re you watching?” 

“10 Things I Hate About You. I know it’s cheesy as hell, but it’s one of my favorites.” 

“Never seen it.” 

“What, oh my god, you have to watch it with me! It’s so good.” 

“Okay, okay, let me settle in and we’ll have a movie night.” 

Once she’s changed out of her uniform, Dahlia settles in on the couch with Cassie, who’s rewinded the movie back to the beginning. They’re cramming food into their mouths as it plays and it’s adorable. A guy being paid to date a girl, so another guy could date her sister due to some dumb dad rule, but then alas he falls in legitimate love. Cassie says lines along with the actors, showing just how many times she’s watched it, able to quote characters verbatim. She does a nervous little glance over at Dahlia now and again as it plays on, checking Dahlia’s interest, the deputy makes sure to smile a little brighter when those eyes land on her. 

“I want you to want me, I need you to need me, I’m begging you to beg me~!” Cassie sings along to the final song that plays the movie out, a band conveniently located on the schools roof, because why the hell not?

“I see why that’s one of your favorites.” 

“Sorry I couldn’t shut up,” Cassie apologizes, cheeks red. 

“No, no, it’s cute. Shows just how much you’re enjoying yourself.” 

“I still remember when they showed it to us in class, I just fell in love.” 

“They showed that in school?” 

“Yeah, it’s actually based on an Shakespeare play, Taming of The Shrew, so they showed to us in English. Along with the DeCaprio, Romeo and Juliet.” 

“Ah, I haven’t seen that movie either.” 

“You haven’t seen many movies have you?” 

“My family wasn’t big on tv and honestly, if my school played anything, I probably slept through it or don’t remember it well.” 

“I mean, your memory can’t be that bad, high school was probably not that long ago for you, was it?” 

“Hey, you don’t know that, I could be pushing forty for all you know.” 

“Oh yeah, and dermatologist just hate you,” she rolls her eyes, “seriously, how old are you?” 

Maybe, it’s the food warm in her belly, the comfort of her own trailer, or the shared smiles; but she feels a little more honest than usual. 

“Twenty…ish,” she says, with a little smug smirk, knowing the question to follow.

“Ish?” 

“Hmmm, well, between you and me, I may be a little shy of it.” 

“You’re nineteen?” 

“Only for the next three months or so, but, yeah…” She admits, trying to do the math, she turns twenty in September. 

“So, you’ve just been lying about your age?” 

“It’s three months, okay, nineteen just hits the ear differently. I have a hard enough time getting anyone around here to respect me without being called a teenager.” 

“But, you are a teenager.” 

“Technically, my age does contain the word teen in it.” 

“And what do you plan on doing when everyone expects you to turn twenty-one and you don’t?” 

“The only people who know when my birthday is would be the Sheriff, you kind of, or in Louisiana. As long as you and Whitehorse don’t run around alerting everyone, there’s no way of any of them knowing, I can play it off as my birthday being further away.” 

“Is that worth it just to not be called a teenager?” 

“Considering all the shit I get about my age and rank already; yes.” 

“I mean, you do look like a baby faced high schooler.” 

“Oh you’re one to talk,” Dahlia laughs, reaching out to pinch Cassie’s own round cheeks, the girl giggles and shoves at her in response. 

“Shit, it’s late,” Cassie says after a moment, catching the time. 

“You headed for bed then?’ 

“I, uh, actually needed to ask you something first?” 

“Sure, what’s up?” 

“I got today off because of…everything…but if I wanna start saving money back up, I gotta go into work. But…I don’t have a car…” 

“What’d you do before?” 

“I just used my mom’s car, she didn’t let me have my own, said it was too much…” 

“And public transport ain’t exactly booming out here.” 

“You can’t even get rideshares out here.” 

“What’s your shift hours?” 

“Nine to five.” 

“You okay with getting there early and hanging out there later? If so I can drop you off on my way to and from work, my shifts are just a bit, lengthier.” 

“Yeah that’s fine, hell, I could chock it up to overtime and probably get a coworker to drive me home at the end of my shift, if you can just get me there in the morning.” 

“We can do that.” 

“Thank you, thank you,” Cassie throws her arms around Dahlia, “seriously, this just thank you.” 

“You’re welcome, you’re gonna get through this and I’m gonna help you every step of the way, promise.” 

She rubs a hand up and down the girls back, then she hears it. Maybe it’s just everything hitting Cassie, maybe it’s the deputy’s words, or the comforting touch; but something pushes the older girl to tears. Broken whimpers and cries, tears wetting Dahlia’s shoulder as she does her best to comfort Cassie, holding her tight and letting her just let it out. 

It’s unclear how long it lasts, the outpour of emotion, but at some point, Cassie is finally able to pull away with red rimmed eyes and apologies on her lips. 

“Nothing to apologize for, mon cher. Why don’t you head on to bed, morning will be here before you know it.” 

“Okay, night, and I know I sound like a broken record, but thanks again…” 

“No problems, now go get some sleep.” 

Cassie leave for the bedroom and Dahlia chews her lips, thoughts racing through her brain. There’s a thought pressing on her, she didn’t bring it up to Cassie and likely won’t until she settles in a bit more. But, she wonders if Cassie could once she gets her footing, just chip in for rent here? She said she feels more comfortable in the Moonflower with Dahlia around, they get along well, and Dahlia likes having a friend to come home to… But a conversation for another day… 

It’s the following afternoon when Pratt and Dahlia are called out to a local veteran’s house. Redler is an older man, older than Whitehorse, with steel gray hair and deep wrinkles creased into his face. Despite his age, he’s strong and sturdy, shaking Dahlia’s hand with a near bone crushing strength when she greets him the next day under the afternoon sun. She can feel the years of work in the rough calluses that mar his hands. Pratt told her that he fought in Vietnam when they got the dispatch call, someone tried to break into his home last night and they were asked to check everything out. 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Dahlia says after introduction, feeling the need to straighten her shoulders around the veteran. 

“Thank you both for coming out, I’m sure I’m just being paranoid, but I’d appreciate if you’d check everything out. I can’t get around quite like I use to.” 

“We’re happy to help, Redler.” 

Pratt and Dahlia start to walk around the house and property, searching for anything that could be considered suspicious or out of ordinary. There’s nothing that jumps out at Dahlia, Redler said he heard something last night but when he yelled out, whatever or whoever it was went away. 

“You think they managed to do anything before he scared ‘em off?” Dahlia asks Pratt. 

“Nah, some of the local teenagers just like to be a pain in his ass.” 

“Why?” 

“He’s an old sometimes crabby guy, kids are pains in the ass, like you.” 

“Haha,” she mocks dryly, “you’re so funny.” 

“I’m hilarious, in fact I had a very eye-opening experience this morning.” 

“Yeah, what was that?” 

“I woke up.” 

“Ughh,” she groans what an awful fucking joke, “you corny dumbass.” 

She raises her fist to give him her usual playful punch against his shoulder, then he steps out of the way. Her knuckles swinging through empty air before connecting with the glass behind Pratt. Blood drains from her face as the window shatters from the force of her punch. She…broke Redler’s window. 

“What the fuck, Rookie!?” Pratt looks at the window and at her, hazel green eyes wide with shock. 

“I, I, you moved!” 

“Oh no, oh no,” he shakes his hands emphatically and smirking, “you’re not blaming this on me.” 

“Why did you move!?” 

“How hard were you trying to hit me?!” 

“No harder than usual, I, I-“

“What the hell was that?” Redler’s voices rings out, steps following after his question, no doubt he heard the shatter. 

“Oh god.” She buries her head in her hands, embarrassment and shame hot in her face, she broke the man’s window over a shitty dad joke. Pratt is cackling at her expense and she knows she’s an idiot. But why did he move?

“What the hell happened here?” Redler asks as he comes around the corner of his house, seeing the broken outside window. She’s sure the inside is a mess of glass, oh god, what is wrong with her?

“I’m so so so so sorry,” she gushes out loudly from behind her hands, “I accidentally punched your window. I didn’t mean to, really. I’ll clean it up and fix it, I promise, I’ll pay for everything. I’m so sorry.” 

Her words slur and run into each other, as guilt forces her to practically beg for forgiveness. 

“Dear lord,” Redler sighs, the heavy sound a vice around her heart, dear god he must think she’s the stupidest person ever and he’s right, “I have the supplies to fix it up, you know how?” 

“Yes, sir, I could build you a brand new house if you gave me the time and supplies,” she tells him, which okay, maybe an exaggeration. But, if he asked her to, she’d try her damndest.

“That won’t be necessary, c’mon now.” 

There’s two different sheds, or shed like structures on his property. One is locked up tight, a keypad on the door and she finds herself wondering what might be in it as he brings her to the other building; helping her gather what she’ll need. Dahlia gets to work on fixing the disaster she’s created, first by cleaning up the broken glass inside and out of the home. Pratt on standby to snicker at the young deputy. 

“You punched a window…” He says, voice straining to contain laughter. 

“I know.” 

“Because of a dumb joke.” 

“I know.”

“Why are you like this?” 

“I don’t know!” 

If it wasn’t for the guilt and embarrassment; she’d probably be laughing at the ridculousness of the situation. But for now, every chuckle from her superior officer just fills her with a fresh dose of shame. Once she’s moved onto fixing the broken window itself, glass cleared, Pratt’s finally shifted his focus away from taunting her.

“Hey, Red,” he talks to the veteran while she works to clear out the dirt and old caulking from the window frame, “you going to the Rye barbecue tomorrow?” 

“Yeah…” 

“You don’t sound thrilled.” 

“Gah, it’s nothing, Grace and her dad are taking me, since I can’t drive or walk too well anymore. Just-“ 

“Don’t like having to be helped?” 

“Yeah, hazard of being my age, I’m afraid.” 

“It’s nice to see the veterans looking out for each other, though.” 

“Pff, use to see it a hell of a lot more because that damn Eden’s Gate bought the veterans center out from under us,” he sighs, heavy and deep for a moment before the older man looks over at her, “what about you, gonna break some of Kim and Nick’s windows tomorrow?” 

He’s smiling and Pratt laughs; at least Redler finds some humor in this she supposes. Her face is beet red as she tries to search for a response through her embarrassment. 

“Not that it stopped me from breaking yours, but, uh, I don’t know Nick or Kim. So, I’ll be steering clear.” 

“Still hung up on that,” Pratt rolls his eyes, “I told you, just show up with some food, no one gives a shit.” 

“I’m not showing up at a strangers house for their barbecue; that’s just asking for awkwardness and I have enough of that in my life as is.” 

“C’mon; me, Hudson, Whitehorse, even Beau will all be there. Ain’t like you won’t know anyone.” 

“All done,” she cuts off the barbecue talk, finished glazing and setting the window, it’s good to go. 

“Would have preferred you didn’t break it, but thanks for getting it fixed so quick.” 

“No problem and like I said,” she pulls cash from her wallet, more than enough to cover all she had to use, “’cause no reason you should be out for the stuff. Sorry again.” 

“And goes without saying, we didn’t find anything amiss, so you scared the brats off before they did anything,” Pratt chimes in. 

“’Preciate you two coming to check it out and despite the trouble, I suppose having some company was nice, I’ll see you around.” 

With that the pair of deputies leave the veteran to his evening, hopefully one that will contain significantly less broken windows. Dahlia rubs a hand down her face when she sits down, tension leaving her back and shoulders now that she’s managed to fix the mess she made. 

“You should seriously come to the barbecue.” 

“Pratt….” 

“It’ll be a chance to meet some more folks, you’re talking about not knowing people, this is how you meet people.” 

He’s not wrong and she knows it, if she ever wants to make friends beyond him, Hudson, Cassie and Eden’s Gate members who’re hated by everyone else, then surely she needs to try to be social. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll buy something to bring tomorrow.” 

“Store bought crap isn’t exactly a way of winning folks over.” 

“I can’t cook, Staci.” 

“Who the hell can’t cook?” 

“Me, asshole.” 

“Oh please, you can throw something together.” 

“I mean if you want me to give the county food poisoning, I can.” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he rolls his eyes and starts up the cruiser, he doesn’t seem to understand just how incompetent she is in the kitchen. 

The moment her shift ends, Dahlia is in a grocery store with her phone on searching for recipes. She needs something good, but more importantly, absolutely idiot proof. She wonders for a moment if she could get away with just freezing juice and sticking toothpicks in them for popsicles, that might be the only thing she’s incapable of fucking up. Though knowing her luck the freezer would just explode. 

She’s gonna kill Pratt; actually, physically kill him. 

No bake cookies, she spots on a list of recipes, that should be easy enough. Probably, it doesn’t even have to be baked, what’s the worst that could happen? Dahlia gathers up ingredients, enough for a few batches, in case she fucks up the first few attempts. Which she will. And some store generic brand sugar cookies in case she fucks up every attempt. Which she probably will. 

Cassie is on the couch watching movies, having grabbed that ride home from a coworker, when Dahlia comes home with bags filled with ingredients. The older girl raises an eyebrow, watching as Dahlia drags these bags to the kitchen, which she hasn’t touched since she made shitty instant hot chocolate. 

The deputy rubs her fingers idly against the burn across her palm, her step father having held it to the stove when her mother tried to teach her to cook and she hadn’t listened. It stands out among her colorful history of abuse at his hands, the burning of her own flesh a sharp and brutal contrast to the bite of a belt or the strike of a hand. It may only be second to the snake incident… 

She shakes her head, trying to shake off her memories like a dog drying itself. She’ll have time to review Father Monroe’s greatest hits later, for now she needs to try to make cookies without destroying her trailer. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m going to the Rye barbecue tomorrow, so I have to make something…” 

“Oh those have always been fun.” 

“You’ve been?” 

“Yeah, everyone loves Nick and Kim.” 

“Well, I’ve never met them and I’m terrified.” 

“Pff,” Cassie laughs, “they’re sweethearts, though Kim’s a little hormonal with baby.” 

“I…ya know what it doesn’t matter, what does matter is; you wanna play hooky from work and go with me?” 

“I need money.” 

“Ugh, you and your need for basic survival requirements,” Dahlia dramatically roles her eyes, “if you must disappoint me by ‘needing money’, you can least make up for it by making the cookies.” 

“Not happening.” 

“God damn it, fine, I got this.” 

Dahlia dumps the ingredient out on her counter; sugar, milk, butter, cocoa powder, vanilla, peanut butter, and oats. So, she needs to line baking pans with parchment paper… the fuck is parchment paper? Why was this not mentioned in things she needed? 

“I don’t think I got this,” Dahlia announces. 

“It’s been a minute.” 

“What the fuck is parchment paper?” 

“Its paper so it doesn’t stick to the pan, I think you have some non-stick spray, that may help?” 

“Okay, okay then.” 

“Do you even have pans?” 

“Yes, I have pans, I’m not a cavewoman.” 

“You sure about that?” 

Cassie merely laughs at Dahlia’s pout, the deputy then grabbing the pans and spraying them down, this should be fine? She shrugs to herself, what’s the worse that could happen if she uses spray and not paper?

“Okay then,” Dahlia starts to read the rest of the recipe, “wait what?” 

“Do you already have a new crisis?” 

“…maybe… These are supposed to be no bakes, why am I heating shit up on the stove? That makes no sense.” 

“Well, that’s not baking.” Cassie shrugs like it’s obvious and maybe to her it is. 

“What?” 

“Baking means it’s in an oven,” Cassie speaks slowly, eyes wide at the realization of how deep Dahlia’s incompetence runs, “if it’s on a stove that’s more like cooking.” 

“There’s a difference?” 

“Yes.” 

“What the fuck? Why do you need more than one word for making food hot?!” 

“Do…do you know anything?” 

“Clearly not!” 

Dahlia curses under her breath, already frustrated at her lack of knowledge. Why is she such a fucking idiot with this stuff? She just wants to make a good impression on people and she’s such a fucking mess. Ruminating will get her nowhere; she ties her short hair back into a sloppy little ponytail and takes her deputy uniform shirt off to tie around her hips, knowing the stove will quickly heart up her small kitchen then sets her phone to play some music. 

“You need music to cook?” 

“Need it to function.” 

> _“Some parts of my brain are probably still sleeping_
> 
> _I wish I could tell but I'm probably still sleeping.”_

Dahlia starts following the instructions , humming along to the music, something upbeat to help her not want to die through this entire process. She eyeballs the amount of sugar, butter, cocoa powder and milk into the saucepan; trying to make it look like the pictured amount and turns on the heat. The recipe calls for her to whisk it, but she doesn’t have one those, so she stirs it off and on with a spoon, this isn’t too hard so far.

“Uh, are you measuring that?” Cassie asks and Dahlia leans on the table to talk, tapping her fingers along to the beat. 

“The recipe doesn’t say how much, but like, it can’t be too hard.” 

“Uhhhh deputy….” 

_“I look to the window, I look through your eyes_

_I can see my reflection, but I can't close the blinds.”_

There’s a burbling noise followed by sizzling and Dahlia turns in time to see chocolate milk boiling over the pan. It runs down onto the floor, sizzling as it hits the burner. The word shit is said under Dahlia’s breath like a chant as she shuts off the heat. 

“So…too much milk?” Dahlia wonder out loud as she cleans up the mess.

“Like I know.” 

‘Someone has to, ‘cause I sure as shit don’t.” 

> _“It's like someone's determined to change how I think_
> 
> _But if I just close my eyes I'll wake from each dream”_

Dahlia cleans up the mess and dumps out the chocolate milk soupy mess within the pan, ignoring Cassie’s snickers of laughter as she works. She just had to do this with a peanut gallery, didn’t she? But hey, she was prepared for the first couple attempts to fuck up. She combines the ingredients again, using much less milk this time. 

“Maybe you should find a recipe with measurements?” 

“I already have the ingredients for this recipe,” Dahlia says, if she switches now there could be shit she doesn’t have, right?

“You’re so stubborn…”

“What?” Dahlia asks when she notices the trail off, storing the new mixture which is thicker and becoming harder to stir in seconds, is that good?

“Holy fuck.” 

“You okay?” 

“I don’t know your name.” 

“Yeah, you just realized ? Umm, is that smell normal?” The chocolate mess is starting to smell like burning tires…which is probably bad.

_“Would it let you down if we don't grow up?_

_Would it make you proud if we gave up?_

_What about anybody?_

_They're all just chasin' money”_

“How is that possible? I’m living with you and don’t even know your name.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Whitehorse is the only one who knows my full name.”

“What the-do you not tell people your name?”

“I mean, I never avoided it, but I usually just call myself the new deputy and we move on. Just sort of happened and now I just think it’s kinda funny, uh this is definitely not good is it?” 

“Jesus fuck, no that’s not good!”

Pitch black smoke has started to roll off the pan; solidifying burnt chocolate sticking to it. Dahlia swings the pan around to the sink, rolling it under cold water before it can spark fire. She huffs, blowing lose strands of hair up and out of her face, sweat and flush on her skin as she turns to face Cassie. 

“So, not enough milk that time.”

“You giving up?” 

“Of course not, third times a charm, mon cher,” Dahlia bolsters her fake confidence as she grabs a new pan, surely she can salvage one batch?

_“Would it let you down if we don't grow up?_

_Would it make you proud if we gave up?_

_What about anybody?_

_They're all just chasin' honey”_

Dahlia recombines finding a middle ground for the amount of milk to avoid burning or boiling over; she hovers over it, stirring the entire time as she watches for any signs of a new disaster. The entire time Cassie seems to be watching her, but she doesn’t talk as much this time, Dahlia can feel eyes on her arms in particular. She looks down at her arm, half expecting to see a spider, a pimple, or something that’d draw attention. But all she sees is her own bicep, maybe it’s the tattoos. Nothing complicated, as she couldn’t afford much, two solid black bands around her right bicep. 

_“If ever you want me, if ever you need me_

_I may not be conscious but baby I'm honest_

_I'll look to the mirror, I'll look through your heart_

_I can see good intentions but we tear them apart”_

“Do you like tattoos?” Dahlia asks, wondering if that’s why Cassie’s eyes have been drawn to the ink. 

“Huh, oh, uh they’re alright, I don’t have anything against them, do you have a lot?” 

“Just these and one on my lower back.” 

“You have a tramp stamp?” Cassie raises an eyebrow, a smile to her lips.

“No, tramp stamps are across the middle, it’s on the left side, so ha.” 

“So, it’s tramp stamp adjacent?” 

“Shut up.” 

“What is it of?” 

“A quote from Lady Lazarus; ‘and like the cat I have nine times to die,’ Sylvia Plath.” 

“That’s,” Cassie blinks, taken aback, “a lot more…pretentious than I expected from you.” 

“Someone I use to live with had all these books of poetry, philosophy, all the deep shit you could dream of. It was my first real time reading that kind of stuff, so a lot of it stuck with me. Cats are kind of a…theme in my life. They called me their stray, got me the helmet, I even had a cat for a…short period of time. So, it’s the quote from it I picked.” 

She can’t help but smile thinking of the shelves of books that Lloyd and Caroline had; when they first took her in, after years of being hidden away from anything ‘sinful’ or ‘worldly’, she was desperate to consume any media she could. She read every book in their house, spent days in front of the tv just binge-watching stuff she wasn’t allowed to watch as a kid. Mostly pokemon cartoons, horror movies, and Sailor Moon if she’s being honest. Caroline was the one with the love of poetry, telling Dahlia about Sylvia Plath when she found the books of poems one night. 

The idea of constantly being killed only to be brought back, over and over, a constant revolving door of pain. A cycle you beg for release from but are never afforded the mercy of it; Caroline explained how Plath struggled with suicidal thoughts… Dahlia never thought herself suicidal through her childhood, but she couldn’t deny how often she wished for death, an escape of any kind… The symbolism with the condemnation of Jewish people, knowing the half of Dahlia’s background that her mother threw away for Father Monroe and made Dahlia throw away too, yet still they were called such vile and slurs… It just stuck with her. 

“Was there another contender?” 

“Yeah, I love the poem all around but two parts of it have always been my favorite.” 

“The cat one and…?” 

“Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.” 

“God, you’re a dork.”

“So rude, what am I gonna do with you,” Dahlia laughs, shaking her head as she moves the pan off the burner. So far, it’s going alright, all she should need to do is mix in vanilla, peanut butter, and oats. Wait…she may be dumber than originally thought, which is saying a lot. 

“Something wrong, you look like you’re doing math in your head or something.” 

“A lot of people are allergic to peanuts…aren’t they?” 

“It’s like one of the most common allergies, yeah.” 

“And I chose food with peanut butter in them…” 

“Wasn’t gonna burst you bubble quite yet, but I’m pretty sure Nick is.” 

“What!? Why would you-!? What were you waiting for, me to kill a man!?” 

Cassie just laughs and Dahlia’s face feels like absolute fire, she’s frustrated and dumb. And between this shit and Redler’s window, who let her be like this? Did no one ever realize that she clearly does not have a brain? Was she born like this and the doctor was just like eh it’s fine and threw her little empty headed baby body out into the world? 

“It’s not a b-“ Cassie tries to speak through red faced laughter, because Dahlia’s misery is hilarious. 

“That’s it! I’m moving to Alaska, bon voyage, I’m out!” Dahlia claps her hands and swings her arms dramatically before dropping onto her back on the kitchen floor, crossing her arms over her chest. It’s so dumb, eyes stinging and throat feeling tight. It’s just cookies, she actually wants to cry over cookies, but dear god she can’t even make fucking cookies! It just feels like another failure. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Cassie stands up and comes around to talk to the dejected puddle of deputy, “it’s not a big deal, don’t be dramatic, alright?”

“I’m not being dramatic, between this and Redler’s window, I’m just gonna dye my fucking hair and run away to Alaska so no one knows who I am and no one can find me.” 

“What happened to Redler’s window?” 

“I broke it…” 

“Why’d you do that?” 

“I was trying to punch Pratt and he moved!” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Aren’t you suppose to be helping me?” 

“Umm, pack plenty of coats and I wouldn’t recommend going blonde.” 

“I hate you. Why do all my friends bully me?” She asks, thinking of both Cassie and Pratt being shitheads with her. She expects it from him, but Cassie, really?

“We do it with love, I assure you, now get up.” 

“No.” 

“I’m serious, okay, you can write a note and put it by them, most people expect no bakes to have peanut butter anyway.” 

“I can’t write a note.” 

“Wh- oh yeah your handwriting is…” 

“Dog shit, I know.” 

“I’ll write it for you then, okay, now get up.” 

“Thank you…” Dahlia reluctantly climbs up onto her feet, still pouting when she looks at Cassie who just smiles at her before ruffling her already messy hair. 

“You got this.”

“Do I?” 

“No. But I’m trying to be positive.” 

“Okay, fuck you too I guess?” Dahlia says in mock anger, laughing at the ridiculousness of all of this. 

She rubs a hand down her face and gets back to mixing up the rest of them mix, then spooning it onto a pan, after that it’s a matter of letting them set so they can solidify. When she sucks some of the mix off her thumb, she’s pleasantly surprised, half expecting with her luck for it to be inedible, but it tastes fine. Chocolate, hint of peanut butter, and oats. Nothing fancy, but she’s not gagging which is something. 

“Here, that should help, if you end up taking these,” Cassie says, showing a notecard with a warning for peanut butter on it. 

“What do you mean ‘if’ I end up taking them, they’re not bad, they actually turned out pretty well.” 

“Well, they might not set.” 

“What?” 

“Sometimes no bakes don’t set properly and you end up with just puddles of chocolate oatmeal instead of proper cookies.” 

“What the fuck…what?” 

“Not to literally bring you down again, but, um, no bakes are kinda finicky and not a great choice for beginners.” 

“I’m never baking, cooking, broiling, roasting, or whatever the fuck else you call this shit ever again.” 

“That’s probably best for everyone…”

“I hate you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, love you too. I’m gonna head to bed now.” 

“Yeah, now you got your fill of entertainment.” 

“Don’t stress too much.” 

Dahlia sighs as Cassie leaves, shoulders still tense. She just wants to make a good impression, she nearly ruined her chance at that with the church barbecue, only by the grace of far too patient people did she manage to come out of it with hopefully some friends. Dahlia doesn’t have the religion barrier in this situation, so she should be better off? She hopes, she doesn’t expect to be best friends with anyone or be welcomed like family, but the more people around here like her the better. Hopefully with Pratt there, some of her nerves will be tamped down on. She’s closer to her coworkers now and has a few friends, so it shouldn’t be too bad, despite her struggle with crowds and socializing. She crashes down onto her couch, yanking her hair tie out before she goes to sleep. 

She’s up early to take Cassie to work before she goes to the barbecue, the older girl bustling to get ready as Dahlia checks on the cookies. Her finger sinks right into one, still wet. Oh no. Maybe they just need some more time, yeah, that’s all. 

Once Cassie is safely at work, confirming a coworker is going to take her home, Dahlia heads back home. The cookies are still wet… She’s going to scream. There has to be a way to make them set? She considers holding a hair dryer to them, but on second thought the heat may just make them melt further. 

Frustrated and the time to leave getting closer, Dahlia goes to get ready, hoping by some twist of fate that they’ll be set by the time she’s showered and dressed. 

Hair still damp, dressed but with a towel across her shoulders to catch stray droplets, she checks again. Cursing under her breath when they’re still just lumps of wet chocolate oatmeal. She might as well show up with a Tupperware container of slop. 

Dahlia slam dunks her failure cookies into the trash a little harder than needed before grabbing the store made sugar cookies. It’s probably for the best with the peanut butter anyway… She throws on her jacket, boots, and helmet before headed out west towards the Holland Valley. Pratt told her the Rye’s property is just outside of Falls End. 

Her shitty directional skills manage to not get in her way, thanks in no small part to the signs for Rye and Son’s Aviation. Small blessings she figures. There’s a driveway that cuts through the woods, a cozy house closer to the drive-way, then an outside building and the hangar beyond it. 

People are gathered in open space near the hangar, picnic tables and a grill set up. There’s an airplane out, a vivid yellow seaplane with a shark design. She parks her motorcycle along with the rest of the cars and trucks, still a short walk from where the party is. She’s searching for familiar faces, before she walks forwards, Pratt mostly. She doesn’t find him. 

Hudson is speaking with Mary May and two women she doesn’t know. One with long dark hair and fatigues, the other a noticeably pregnant woman with hair shaved at the side. They talk and laugh. Despite having felt a little less awkward with Hudson, since spending more time with her, the idea of interrupting or cutting in feels wrong. 

Whitehorse is talking to a man she doesn’t know, but judging by the pastor’s collar she can assume his job. Catholicism isn’t particularly common out here and the only catholic church she can think of is the one in Falls End. Not exactly comfortable jumping in there either. 

There’s not really an easy place to put herself in, nothing that feels comfortable or right. Everything feels like an intrusion. 

“Everyone’s gonna think you’re a creep, if you keep staring like that,” a familiar voice taunting her, Pratt’s standing beside her and she can’t help but smile, tension easing. He’s a jerk, but he’s her jerk. 

“Shut up, dickhead, I was trying to see who I knew,” she explains, grabbing the store-bought cookies from the under-seat storage. If Pratt’s by her side, she feels a bit more confident joining in. She’s not sure when he became a rock for her in a situation like this, but maybe it’s best not to question that.

“So, you just bought store crap?” 

“Okay, judgey, what did you make?” 

“Pff, I can’t fucking cook, the hell are you talking about?” 

“What,” she glares at him, if this was all an excuse to fuck with her, she’s killing him, “you said everyone cooks, no store bought crap!” 

“And you believed me? Food is food, no one gives a fuck where it came from, well there’s the one time the Seeds brough this gross ass mac and cheese, but that’s another story.” 

“What the fuck Pratt? I was up all night trying to make something edible.” 

“Take it that didn’t go well?” 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

“Hey Beau, hey Nick,” Pratt calls out and then goes rushing off towards the crowd, he’s leaving her. 

“Where are you going?” 

“Sorry can’t hear you, need to be near witnesses, bye,” he’s laughing through his words and she finds herself wanting to grab the back of his shirt, to drag him back just so she won’t have to go in alone. But that’s childish…so she watches as her rock runs off to join everyone else. 

And once again she’s the sore thumb and maybe if she tried, she could make a new friend. And maybe if she’d just get the courage to talk to someone, she’d be fine. And maybe if she wasn’t such a damn coward, she’d do that. But she’s been the outsider looking in for her entire life and there’s a level of comfort in the loneliness; familiarity in isolation. 

When she thinks of it, the people who breach that comfort zone rarely do so because either of them make that step. Circumstance, not courage, is what always brings people into her life. Pratt and Hudson are her friends, because they work together, Pratt more so because they’re made to spend almost everyday together. Cassie because she was in an awful situation and needed a home. Lloyd and Caroline because she needed one. Hell, Eden’s Gate members are the closest to it, but they still sought her out for another body in the flock, not because they wanted her as a friend. Circumstance, desperation, pity, and religious duty. 

And as her throat tightens, feet frozen in place as she debates trying to socialize, she realizes…maybe that’s okay. Not happy or pleasant to think of, but okay. She’ll stay in her bubble for another day or the rest of her life; one of the two. 

Dahlia throws the cookies back into the under storage and slips her helmet back on, climbing onto her bike, riding away from the barbecue. Music blasting in her ears and racing down backroads on her motorcycle; it feels like home. 

Songs change, hours pass, the sun sets and the moon takes it’s place with the stars keeping it company. She’s spent the entire day riding and her heart feels lighter for it, she thinks as she pulls over to get gas, filling the tank. The entire barbecue and cooking thing is a fucking fiasco, but she’s happy now and that’s what matters, so fuck it. She got to spend an entire day doing one of the things she loves most in this world and she has a friend, no matter how they got there, who’s waiting for her at home. 

Then her phone rings and Dahlia feels her heart leap into her throat, the hair on the back of her neck raising. That little sixth sense warning her that something is wrong. Because as she’s learned quickly, even her most minor of happy moments must be interrupted by total fucking hell. It’s Cassie and her fear only raises. 

“Deputy…” And she’s brought back to the night Cassie called her, that broken and scared voice asking for help, no longer the happy woman who’d taunted her last night. There’s something in the background; some sort of yelling and music. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I…I don’t know, someone broke a window, I, there’s yelling, they’re doing something, I’m scared to check.” 

“You’re at the Moonflower.” 

“Yeah, I, I don’t know what going on.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

Dahlia keeps her on the phone as she races back, a repeat of Wednesday night it feels like. Just when Cassie was feeling safe, just when things felt good, because of fucking course. She has no idea what hairbrained idea the Moonflower folks got in their head, she knows they hate her and fine, she gets it, but to scare Cassie like that is so fucking wrong. 

It looks like they decided to have their own party while so much of the county was away at the Rye’s. There’s a stench of booze around the entire trailer park. Rage is white hot inside of Dahlia when she sees the cluster of them around her trailer, a few cursing when they see her getting closer. She could give a fuck less about the damage, the broken windows or the PIG spray painted across the trailer, but Cassie is there. Curled up and crying, surrounded by broken glass as they shove and push at the home. 

“Everybody stand back!” Liam calls out; lighter in one hand, bottle of booze with a rag in the other. And she’s on him, tackling him to the ground beneath her. The lighter and would be Molotov thankfully fall away without igniting. Instinct and anger pushes her to raise back her fist and slam it into Liam’s face. 

She’s blacked his eye, skin breaking at his eyebrow and making his blood stick to her knuckles; then someone is grabbing her from behind, pulling her off of him. Dahlia slams her elbow back into the person’s gut, making them let go of her, she watches as Liam gets up, The crowd is surrounding them, no doubt ready to dogpile Dahlia if she tries to go after him again. He’s smiling and laughing, like an asshole, she wants to punch him again. 

“Quite a temper you got there, deputy.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” 

“Fuck is wrong with me? You’re the cop running around hitting people over a trailer,” he taunts her, reminding her that she should be better than this. 

“Fuck you, this ain’t about the god damn trailer!” 

“Wh-“

“Deputy…” A broken timid voice rings out from behind Dahlia, Cassie… When Dahlia looks over her shoulder, she can see her friend on the porch, just poking her head out from behind the door. Her eyes are wide and Dahlia wonders just how much of this mess she’s seen. 

“Shit…” Liam murmurs and the smirk is wiped off his face, eyes wide. 

“Everything okay, Cassie, I’m taking care of it. Go back inside, okay?” She watches as Cassie goes back in with a timid nod. 

“I… we didn’t know anyone was home…” 

“Oh so it’s all okay, everything’s fine ‘cause you didn’t fuckin’ know! You could have killed her, you dumb fuck!” 

“I-I’m-“ 

“Save it! Get the fuck away from me before I do something I regret.” 

Liam gets the picture, he has something more to say, everyone else there seems to too. But, no one’s stupid enough to test their luck or maybe smart enough to know this isn’t the time to talk. Once they’re all gone and she knows they’re not going to do anything stupid, again, Dahlia goes back to the trailer. 

Cassie is curled up on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest. The inside of the trailer is a mess; broken glass from windows, beer bottles, trash, rocks, and a brick that was probably used to break it. All thrown inside while Cassie sat horrified. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dahlia says and sits next to her, extending an arm to hold her. 

But Cassie flinches away, curls up deeper upon herself, as if Dahlia’s even attempt to comfort had scalded her. And the deputy’s heart seizes in her chest, pulling her arm back, seeing the blood on her knuckles. Did Cassie see her hit Liam? How much of her rage did she witness? Bloody knuckles, red faced, and nearly frothing at the mouth as she screamed her anger out… She must have seemed more like a monster than a friend. 

And Dahlia’s reminded of Genevieve all at once, the child of Dahlia’s mother and Father Monroe, the deputy’s half sister. The young girl, she’d be no older than eleven or twelve by now, was his blood and his golden child for it. And he told her of every one of Dahlia’s so called faults, sins he believed she committed, and convinced the child Dahlia was a monster in their home. And for so long she treated her like it; flinched from her affection, cowered at her sight, and shrunk away from her at every moment. As if Dahlia was the boogeyman, she fought for years with silly stories and blanket forts to coax her own sister into loving her. But, progress was always quickly undone. Every effort to chip through the wall he’d built between them was met with abuse, egging on her anger so he could make a show of her sin , so Genevive would always see Dahlia as the monster who’d spit her blood and bare her teeth rather than give in. 

Now, she’s there again, another person flinching from her, terrified of the monster she’s shown she can be. Scared that one day those bared teeth will be at her throat instead of at another's. And Dahlia truly can’t blame her. 

“I…know it’s the only option…but I really don’t like it here…” 

Dahlia had wanted to offer an invitation for Cassie to stay, those passing ideas of having a roommate, how nice it’d be. At the time Dahlia thought she could keep Cassie safe, that this is better than the hell she had with her mother. And maybe for a few days it was, but if this is the kind of shit that can happen, all Dahlia’s done is taken her out the pan and placed her in the fire. Almost literally… Cassie could have been burned alive if Dahlia hasn’t made it back in time…

Cassie needs someplace else and the conversation with Whitehorse resurfaces, Eden’s Gate. They take people in, the only conflict she was saw was when Layla was at a store, but the church and the compound were safe…protected. They have plenty of land to house anyone who needs it and apparently they have the heart to do so. The Seeds can be a little off, but they’re not bad… 

“I got an idea,” Dahlia speaks up.

“What’s that?” 

“You got anything against Eden’s Gate?” 

“I mean, I’ve heard some stuff, but I don’t know much about them. I’ve seen Faith a few time and she seems nice.” 

“She is, they, uh, they take people in sometimes…I can take you up to Joseph’s church and we can talk to them.” 

“You think they’d help me?” 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“I think I’d like that.” 

“Okay then,” Dahlia jumps up from the couch, “get dressed and lets get you packed up.” 

“Right now?” 

“You wanna spend the night here?” 

“God no, lets go.” 

It doesn’t take long for Cassie to get dressed and pack everything up in the bag Dahlia got from her house. They may be counting their chickens before they hatch, already getting her things packed up, but Dahlia can’t see Joseph turning Cassie away. He’s too kind for that. And even if he were too, Dahlia will find something, even if she has to go barge on Whitehorse’s door. 

Dahlia has an arm around Cassie as they leave the trailer, hoping to offer even the smallest modicum of support. Cassie pulls on Dahlia’s helmet, at this rate maybe she should invest in a second helmet. And then with Cassie’s arms wrapped tight around her waist she rides out of the park. 

Eden’s Gate is quickly becoming one of the only good places to be in the whole damn county; they got to help her… All Dahlia can do as she rides through winding roads is hope that her faith in the church isn’t misplaced. 


	10. The Snakes We Don't See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Kinda been sitting on the two most recent chapters, since I like started to write some cyberpunk 2077 stuff. So, thats why its been a while, but given how short the prologue for that fic is, I decided to go ahead and update this this month as well. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Child Abuse (excerpts from the book of joseph), Suicide (non-graphic but still), A body horror dream (my favorite) with some symbolism/implications of sexual assault, discussion of religion, and really really way too blunt on the nose foreshadowing (SOMEHOW I ACCIDENTALLY COPIED THE WARNINGS FOR A DIFF CHAPTER IM SO SORRY, HOPEFULLY I FIXED IT BEFORE ANY ISSUES CAME UP)

The church and compound look beautiful in the moonlight, Dahlia can’t help but note as she drives Cassie towards it. The modest white buildings and the silver gate work looking beautiful beneath a blanket of stars. It’s not a steady bustle of activity like it was last time, thanks in large part to the late hour, she’s sure. But there’s a few church members meandering around the outside of the church, beyond the gate. Which, to her dismay is being watched by Theodore. It had to be one of the two members who hate her, didn’t it? Because life can’t just kick her in the teeth once and call it done, no, it has to throw in a few extra hits for good measure. The towering man is glaring at her as she comes to a slowed down stop before the gate. 

“Though I doubt it’s why you’re here, service is over, so save me a headache and scram.” 

“No can do, I gotta talk to Joseph.” 

“Pfff,” he scoffs at her, “you arrest me, ruin service, and then come around demanding an audience with The Father. Gotta hand it to you, nothing else, you got balls.” 

“Technically, Hudson arrested you, I wasn’t hired yet.” 

“You think that helps?” 

“Come on man, this ain’t about me.” 

He looks past her to Cassie, still holding onto Dahlia’s back, face ducked down to hide away from his amber gaze. Dahlia can see gears turning in his head and he sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“Fine, you can come through, but only ‘cause The Father likes you.” 

“Thanks,” Dahlia parks her bike, Cassie handing her back her helmet before the pair walk into the compound. 

“That guy at the gate is kind of … a lot.” 

“Eh, he doesn’t like me much, but he’s not that bad. Lonny’s probably the biggest d-bag I’ve met here, Jacob and his … friends, if you can call ‘em that, are a bit rough. But, even then, I’m seen more friendly faces than I’ve seen cruel ones.” 

A few people recognize Dahlia from the barbecue, giving her a kind smile and a friendly wave as she passes by in search of Joseph. She returns the kind gestures but stays focused on her goal. Dahlia isn’t quite sure she’s ready to fulfill her promise of stepping foot into the church just yet, but if they’re freshly done with service, that’d be where she’d find him. 

“Deputy,” a soft angelic voice speaks out, Faith walking through the compound yard towards them, her hair is done up in plaits with flowers twisted in them, “is everything okay?” 

“Uh, not really? I was hoping to talk to Joseph? If he’s around.” Of course he’s around, she’s not sure why she’s acting like there’s a chance he’s not here. 

“Sure, I’ll go get him right away.” 

She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees him, walking out of the church with Faith beside him, she’s never been happier to see a preacher in her entire life. Dahlia looks over at Cassie and sees the raised eyebrow, which is understandable. Joseph is Joseph, strange and weird, shirtless with a myriad of sins and tattoos etched into his skin, and yellow aviators on despite the silver moonlight that covers them all. But at the moment, that moonlight gives him a halo, a saving grace for a shitty night. 

“Deputy, I’m surprised to see you so soon,” Josephs greets her,

“Yeah, I’m sorry to bug you, but I … we,” Dahlia looks back at the still timid Cassie, duffle bag held out in front of her lap, “need some help. I didn’t know who else to turn to.” 

“Of course, if there’s anything I can do to help, I will.” 

“Well, Joseph, Faith, this is my friend Cassie, Cassie this is Joseph and Faith,” Dahlia first introduces them

“Hi … ” Cassie gives an awkward nod of her head. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Joseph responds with a warm smile, “though I feel there’s more to this than friendly introductions.”

His gaze lingers on Dahlia’s knuckles, still stained with Liam’s blood. 

“Okay, so, Cassie’s home life is,” Dahlia pauses and looks to Cassie, searching for words that she might be comfortable with the deputy using, “bad, she’s not safe there. That’s all I’ll say. So, I was letting her stay with me but … .recent events mean it ain’t too safe there either.” 

“I’m so sorry, I’m sure this has been difficult on the two of you.” 

“Difficult is a word for it; but more importantly, I hear Eden’s Gate takes folks in.” 

“Deputy … ”

“I know it’s a lot to ask, I know it’s short notice, and I-“ 

A large warm hand grasps her shoulder and she doesn’t flinch, not this time.

“I’m honored you’d come to me for help.” 

And she feels his sincerity in his touch, hears it in every word, and sees it in his eyes. It’s hard to believe how much she distrusted him at first, she curses her past for coloring her view. He’s strange certainly, but he’s good.

“So, I take it you can help?” 

“Of course, my child.” 

“We have plenty of space at the convent,” Faith chimes in with a soft smile, looking from Joseph to Cassie. 

“Thank you, thank you, seriously, thank you so much,” Cassie gushes, relief swimming in her dark eyes. 

“We can get you settled in tonight.” 

“That’s so sweet, I can’t thank you enough.” 

“We’re happy to help,” then Joseph’s eyes turn to Dahlia, “will you be alright though, deputy?”

Joseph suddenly catches her hand in his own, brushing his fingers over her bloodied knuckles, no sign of hesitation at the rough sight. Brows furrowed in concern. 

“Oh yeah, it’s not mine, don’t worry, uh,” she catches herself, “that sounds bad, but like dude was gonna torch my trailer so, it was like okay to punch him, I think.” 

“Wait, what?” Cassie’s eyes go wide as she looks to Dahlia, she must not have seen Liam with the lighter, only Dahlia striking him. 

“Yeah, dude was gonna fuckin’ torch the place, so I blacked his eye. More than fair, if you ask me.” 

“Okay, first,” Cassie starts and Dahlia smiles as a bit of the girl’s personality peeks through her fear, “I didn’t know it was that bad. Secondly, I don’t think you’re suppose to talk like that in front of a church and it’s preacher.” 

“I also shouldn’t have worn a shirt that said ‘hail satan’ to their sermon.” 

“You what?” 

“Look, in my defense,” Cassie is covering her mouth and laughing, a welcomed sight, “I don’t think, okay, you think I think and I just don’t alright.” 

Dahlia is laughing through her own words, face flushed red at being the butt of the joke, but if it can bring a smile to Cassie’s face right now she’d make a thousand more mistakes like it. Faith’s little melodic giggles ring out behind her own hand. Joseph doesn’t laugh but he does smile. With the tension of Cassie’s housing eased, everyone seems in a brighter mood. 

“And despite all that, you still like her?” Cassie asks, looking up at Joseph and Faith.

“I’d get mad but like, fair fuckin’ question.” 

“I’ve forgiven sins and transgressions far greater than yours, deputy,” Joseph says and his eyes are intense, kind, but the word sins makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It’s not a fun word, but most religions have a ‘everyone’s born a sinner’ mentality. So, surely she can’t be too upset. 

“Your patience is both staggering and appreciated, I assure you,” Dahlia tells him, her smile a bit more forced than it was a moment ago. If he can tell he doesn’t say anything. 

“Come on Cassie, I’ll introduce you to everyone and we’ll get you settled, okay?” 

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” 

Faith grabs Cassie’s hand and leads her away with a giggle, the sigh of the flower adorned woman leading her away in the night reminds Dahlia of her odd dream before. The draw of Faith, the siren pulling someone away in the moonlight. But that’s silly, Dahlia tells herself, they’re climbing into a pickup truck drove by another church member, yelling goodbyes to Joseph and Dahlia with smiles on their face. Yet the image of a siren dragging a victim into the sea pricks at her mind, despite how asinine it may be. 

Dahlia shakes her head, wondering why her nerves have suddenly ticked up. She’s over this, isn’t she? Eden’s Gate is good, she reminds herself, one of the few good things in this county that’s actually helping people instead of letting them drift into the cracks. Despite everything she’s heard, they’re good. Her personal issues is just fucking with her, that has to be it. 

“Are you certain you’ll be okay, Deputy?” Joseph asks as the truck rolls down the curves of the road, disappearing over the horizon, Cassie gone with it. 

“Uh, yeah, gave the guy a hell of a shiner so he should cut the shit for a while. Should be fine.” 

“Is it?” 

“Fuck if I know, but what am I gonna do, sit around and cry about it?” 

“I certainly wouldn’t expect you to, but if something does happen, you know you can come to me.” 

“Yeah, uh, it means a lot,” Dahlia scratches at the back of her neck, his gaze too intense again, “and thanks again for helping out Cassie. It means a lot, I really don’t know if I can thank you enough.” 

“You could always attend church, if you wanted to show thanks.” 

“Patient but persistent, I see, but, uh, not quite ready to cash in that promise yet.”

“I understand but, I’d be remiss if I didn’t caution you. My patience may be staggering, but the world is not so kind. Time is finite and you window for finding salvation may be closing quicker than you know.” His voice is fevered and impassioned, hints of a southern accent peeking through as his intensity rises, awash in moonlight the glow of it around turns from a halo to an eerie glow.

“Okay, not holding back, are you?” Dahlia tries to laugh it off, religious folks are just like this sometimes, aren’t they?

“I would be doing you a disservice if I did.”

“So … you think the worlds ending?” She asks, trying to keep her tone light, the only other interpretation of her window closing is Joseph’s convinced she’ll die soon.

“You don’t?” He questions, brows furrowed, as if the idea of the world not ending is ridiculous. And … she kind of gets that.

“I didn’t say that,” she moves to lean her back against the church building, standing next to Joseph instead of before him, looking at the stars, “I mean eventually humans are gonna destroy the planet, climate change, corporate pollution, not to mention us just trying to kill each other half the time. And even if we don’t fuck it up, eventually time will, sun’s going to go to the next stage and destroy the earth. So … ”

“You sense it coming, too..” He presses his back against the wood next to her, no longer focusing his stare on her but the moon, maybe he sense her unease with his gaze …

“Yeah … I guess, don’t know when or how, but eventually … ”

The itch of nerves under her skin is too strong, she digs a cigarette from it’s pack and lights it, smoking against the church building. John warned her it’s forbidden by Eden’s Gate, that Joseph wouldn’t like such an act, but he doesn’t stop her in the moment. Whether it’s another moment of him showing her kindness or just consideration for her not being apart of the church, she doesn’t know. 

“Yet, you still put off salvation.”

“Okay,” she exhales a plume of smoke, “I’ll bite, what’d that fix?”

“When the world collapses those who’ve followed the path to Eden, confessed their sins, atoned, and made their sacrifice will be the ones who walk into the garden, into New Eden. A world cleansed of sin and turmoil. The world will be pure again, free of pain.”

New Eden sounds like their heaven, essentially, to Dahlia. So, nothing truly new by any religious standards. Almost every Christian religion has a doomsday, revelation, apocalypse, end of the world and those who do what god wants get to be super happy in some magic paradise, while everyone else burns. Same stuff, new label.

“Well, as much as your concern for my immortal soul is appreciated, I’m gonna have to pass.”

“You’ll come to understand eventually … I just hope it’s not too late.” 

She scratches at the back of her neck again, his words leaving a bad taste in her mouth that mingles with the nicotine, it feels dismissive of her … Like he claims to know her feelings and where they’ll end up better than she does. There’s a habit among those older than her to assume they know how the world works more than she does, she chalks it up to an old man thing, and lets it roll off her back. He still helped her, despite his faults. 

“We’ll have to agree to disagree, but I do appreciate everything, I’ll have to when I get a chance call Cassie and see how she’s settles in.” 

“I’m afraid that won’t be so simple.” 

“What?” She turns to look at Joseph now, raising an eyebrow, why wouldn’t she be able to call Cassie?

“While Cassie is staying with us, we do expect her to abide by our rules. There are no cellphones permitted in the convent, I’m sure you understand.” 

“Oh,” Dahlia blinks, “guess that explains why not a single person was on their phone at the barbecue.” 

“Smartphones and social media have eroded people’s values, they’re more concerned with it than they are their own family.” 

“Okay, okay, I get it; the convent have a landline or Satan manage to get through that too?” His expression hardens, unimpressed by her quip, though she can’t help but smile. After a moment, he sighs. 

“There is a landline available there, but it’s typically reserved for church matters. If you wish to check on her, visiting and writing letters would be ideal.” 

“Got it, I’ll keep that in mind,” she moves from her spot against the church exterior, “thanks again, Joseph. I’ll talk to you, later.” 

“Have a nice night, Deputy.” 

“You too.” 

Dahlia stubs out her cigarette once she’s outside the compound’s gates, climbing onto her motorcycle. She didn’t realize how isolated Cassie might be there, if she’s not even allowed to call her friend. It just doesn’t sit right. But, Joseph’s far from the only old religious man to claim technology is bad. And if Cassie is living with them, it’s natural to expect her to follow the same guidelines as everyone else. It was already asking a lot for them to house her, it’d be unthinkable to expect special treatment as well. 

The trailer park is far calmer when she rides through, damage already done, Dahlia sighs at the sight of all the havoc they caused. It’s already well past midnight, but her night is far from done. There’s glass to be cleaned up and windows to be covered until she can get supplies to fix them properly. She could care less about the spray paint and if needed she can sleep through the chill, but she’d at least like to not sleep on broken glass. 

She’s parked and locked up her bike, walking up her porch when she hears the crush of steps, someone clearing their throat. Liam stands, hands in his pockets and a mottle of bruises across his eye. His blues eyes look anywhere but her. 

“Dude, seriously, just go. I-”

“I’m sorry … ,” he mumbles, clearing his throat again, searching for words, “I didn’t know she was in there, I really didn’t. Clyde said she left out and he hadn’t seen her come back, we thought the place was empty and-”

“And? You could have killed her, ignorance don’t cure third degree burns!” She’s taken steps towards him, nearly yelling in his face now, she can see hurt in his face. He may not have meant to take a life, but in one dumb moment he nearly did and he damn well needs to know that. 

“I know, I know, I just … no one got hurt, she, she ain’t hurt, right?” 

“No, thank fuck, but that doesn’t make it okay? Even if you didn’t hurt you, you scared the fuck out of her, this was suppose to be a safe place for her and you destroyed that!” 

“I’m sorry, okay, I … I can’t fuckin’ say sorry enough and I mean it. I just we were drinking and thought we’d see if we could run ya out of here, it got out of hand.” 

“You hate cops, I get that, I do and quite frankly you wanna give me hell, have at it. There ain’t anything you can do to me that hasn’t already been done. But shit like that doesn’t just affect me, hell, you could of set the whole damn place on fire.” 

“Yeah, I, fuck I nearly pulled a Sharky.” 

“I’m … not sure what you mean by that, ‘cause last thing I saw that man do was … very different. But, uh, if you’re doing that too you should stop.” Her stomach churns at the reminder of Boshaw in his jeep, she really was hoping she repressed that. 

“I don’t even wanna know,” Liam shakes his head, “but I am sorry about Cassie … I’d like to apologize to her, if she’s around.” 

“Fat chance of that man, I found her another place to stay, she’s somewhere safe and far away from your ass.” The convent isn’t particularly far away, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“I deserve that.” 

“Fuck yeah, you do.” 

“Well, I said my piece, I assume I’ll be seeing the inside of a cell tomorrow?” 

She chews her lip for a moment, he strikes her as genuine, in both his remorse and ignorance. He wasn’t trying to become a murderer, he only mean to run her out of the trailer park. And at the end of it all, Cassie is safe. 

“Nah man, it’ll be fine, so long as you don’t pull this shit again. You do and I’ll be in jail for killing your ass.” 

“Gotcha … thanks … I think.” 

“Now, fuck off, I got a mess to clean. Unless you care enough to help?” 

“Hell no, have fun, narc,” Liam scoffs at the idea and leaves, clear his remorse was only ever for Cassie’s sake. Asshole. She watches him vanish into his own trailer before finally walking into her own to start on her night of work. 

That night and next day are monotonous, mess cleaned up and windows covered just as the sun starts to rise over the horizon. Muscles aching and a damp sweat clinging to her skin, she showers and catches a few hours of sleep. When she wakes up she’s off to the local hardware store and buying what she needs to fix the windows, as well as some damage done inside the trailer. 

The sun is setting on the next day by the time all the damage is attended to, well everything but the graffiti of PIG across the outside of the trailer. But, she doesn’t have the energy to wash it away. Lounging around her living room after another shower, Dahlia finds her mind drawn back to Cassie and The Seeds. 

No phone calls, only letter writing. It seems so unnecessarily archaic in the modern age, though she may mostly be whining because her handwriting is completely illegible. It’s too late to drop in on the convent, plus she doesn’t particularly want to move. After last night, she likes the idea of a lazy night. And with her long at time hard to predict workdays, it may not be possible to swing by for more than a moment until the weekend. 

She doesn’t have to write her letter, at least not by hand, she decides as she opens her laptop. She’ll type it up and print it out at the station, then she can send it like a proper letter, to appease Joseph’s hatred of tech. 

_ “Hey, Cassie, Deputy whatever (did I tell you my last name, legit can’t remember?) here. Joseph said you guys can’t like call? I guess? But you can get letters, so given my handwriting, typing it instead. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re settling in. Maybe this weekend I can visit? I’ll treat you to lunch.” _

That sounds alright, she decides, saving the typed letter. She drums her fingers against the table, searching for something else to maintain her attention. The Book of Joseph with her drawing tucked inside of it is still nearby, Joseph’s lecture of last night coming to mind. Maybe, she could write him a thank you letter? He seems like the kind of guy who’d appreciate that, she opens another document. 

_ “Dear Joseph, _

_ That’s how you format a letter, right? Sorry, social media has “eroded” my soul and the art of letter writing is lost on my generation. That’s a joke, I hope it’s somewhat funny, if not sorry. My handwriting is atrocious, so I hope a typed letter still fits into your beliefs, since I’m trying here. I just wanted to thank you in some small way, despite some of our different beliefs, you’ve been incredibly kind to me and my friend. I read somewhere that drawings can be like gifts? So, I drew something for you. I hope it’s a nice gesture and not creepy, but it can’t be as creepy as the portrait in your book and creepy is kind of your thing, so. Also a joke, I promise I’m trying to be funny not mean _ _ … _ _ I’ll end this now, thanks again, Me, Cassie, and my eroded damned soul appreciate it. “ _

Dahlia saves the letter to Joseph, it’s messy and awkward, but so is she. She’ll print and mail them both out tomorrow. Hopefully, she won’t have to put her proper name on an envelope to send it. The idea of no one knowing her name is fun, she wants to play into it. The mysterious deputy who no one knows, sounds way cooler than she is. 

She stretches her arms out and puts her laptop aside, grabbing the Book of Joseph, the conversation with Joseph has renewed her interest in learning more about his beliefs. Even if they don’t align, even if she’ll never believe in god, the least she can do is try to understand. She made harsh initial judgments and still struggles with her past effecting her thoughts, making what could be nothing into red flags, this is a way to make amends. Even if Joseph isn’t able to see her efforts, it means something to her, growing as a person. 

_ “Not ice cream trucks, not social services cars, not even police patrols. _

_ In any case. In these parts, people kept their noses out of other people's business, even when that business took place on a porch out in the open. _

_ The father thrashed his arms furiously while the boy, young Joseph Seed stood with his head bowed, contrite and seemingly fixated on the floorboards. If he had looked up, he would have seen the kaleidoscopic colors of an old issue of Spiderman flashing by, alternating with the smooth black leather of his father's Bible and the ruddy face of the father himself. He would have seen the grey teeth-few and far between-of Old Man Seed, as the locals called him, or Old Man Seed behind his back, as Josephs big brother Jacob had snickered to him. Dental care was not a priority in the Seed household. The money was needed for other things. So, his father's teeth always reminded Joseph of the rocky crags that pirate ships washed up on in picture books at the library.” _

She tries to see them, a young Joseph and Jacob on their porch. It’s both easy and difficult all at once. A part of her can easily see in her mind, the two young boys with freckled faces and bright blue eyes, one ginger and the other brunette. But, connecting that to who she knows to be Joseph and Jacob Seed is more difficult. It’s always weird to imagine old people when they were young, old to her she should specify. To imagine the mountain that is Jacob Seed as a young boy, laughing behind his abusive father’s back. To see Joseph as a little boy reading comic books and pirate stories. The images seem so far removed from the tall intense older men she knows now. 

The life they’ve lived is one she knows well, no media beyond the bible, and beatings for breaking rules. But, her own abuser was more hidden, pretending to be a pillar of the community with his wonderful little church while beating her black and blue behind closed doors. Behind a church following service was the most brazen he ever became; it’s hard to imagine a man bold enough to beat his children in broad daylight on his porch. Though, she has no doubt what she reads is true. She’s seen Joseph’s back, his distaste for shirts making every scar a public display, she knows the lash marks well. Her own back marred with them as well. 

It makes her wonder, how they could be so different in their takeaways … Joseph if anything has turned to religion, leading his own church and group, taking issue with the sinfulness of modern media. Though, by no means an abuser, it’s hard to debate that he now shares qualities with his father, if only regarding religiosity. 

Dahlia once heard that people grow up to be their parents, particularly their same sex parents. Which is an all at once terrifying prospect for most people, but especially for people like her and the Seeds. The prospect she could be anything like her mother, watching passively as her own child is abused, bending to the will of a man and losing herself completely; is downright terrifying. Dahlia is determined to not let that happen, but it’s still a fear. She can see ways they match; both physically and in certain traits. Dahlia wonders if Joseph sees the way he matches his father and if those qualities scare him too. If he worries his faith has turned him into that same monster. She wonders too about Jacob, if his surliness is a part of that, if he sees any of his father in himself. 

_ “The priority in the Seed household, as everyone in the neighborhood knew, was cheap whiskey, which the father drank from dawn 'til dusk. The more whiskey that went in, the more Bible verses that came out -and the more often his children felt the switch.  _

_ The cause of the paternal fury was simple: comics were forbidden in the home - comics and books, records, magazines, radio, and television. Only the Bible was allowed.  _

_ Once, when the entire elementary school went to see Gone with the Wind at an old theatre in town, Joseph's father had leapt up in rage like a drunken jack-in-the-box, and before stunned teachers and students, launched into a rambling sermon condemning the sins of Hollywood, insisting this Babylon had long perverted the most fragile of minds and was responsible for the downfall of all of America, with Joseph under one arm and Jacob under the other, he stormed out of the room still hurling curses.” _

Dahlia doesn’t have many blessings to count, but Monroe never dragged her from school with a sermon. Only making her withdraw and begin homeschooling the moment he learned the public school had the nerve to provide even shoddy sex education. But she’d take a quiet withdrawal from the system over being physically dragged out before everyone. 

_ “This time, when they arrived home, he beat Jacob only, because he was the eldest and thus responsible for his younger brother. At least the brothers had had time to see Atlanta burn. Thus, when Old Man Seed stood on the porch and began sliding off his belt, the child simply removed his T-shirt, folded it carefully, and bent over to offer his pale, delicate back to the worn-out strap of leather.  _

_ Joseph's head was turned toward the well maintained- at least by local standards - house of a quiet, gentle widow. He considered it a blessing, if a small one. Facing the other way, he would have had to look at the other neighbor's house, which even by local standards was so run-down as to be hideous to the eye. When they were younger, the widow used to bake them cakes, probably out of pity for them. The children's mother wasn't exactly an impressive chef. She wasn't exactly a loving mother either. But the widow didn't bake much of anything anymore now that she was dying of cancer. Instead, she spent her days in her porch rocking chair, rain or shine, tottering gently. Jacob and Joseph argued over whether the groaning came from the wooden rocking chair or the old women.” _

Dahlia closes the book, marking the page at that point, she can’t deny the intensity of the content and the impact it has on her. She can only stomach so much at a time, trauma too close to her own. Talks of a lackluster mother and the kindness of strangers only adding to it all. Maybe one day she’ll talk to Joseph about this, how he can bless those who hurt him in such a way, how he has managed to be so open about it. It all seems to be a level of maturity she can’t imagine reaching, how much work and growth does it take to accomplish that?

She falls asleep that night thinking of just how much work she has left to do, just how far she has to go as a person. How long will it take her to be okay with her past? Thoughts fade to black as she succumbs to her heavy eyelids. 

The sun is bright and high in the bright blue sky, deceptively cherry for what her and Pratt are being called out to. Despite shifting opinions on Joseph, she can’t deny that the statue still creeps her the fuck out. As they drive further upward, the sheer scale of the cement monument takes her breath away. How much time and work went into that? Joseph doesn’t seem to have an ego, but to an outsider this downright makes him look like a narcissist. They don’t go fully up the mountain, where the trail forms stone circular steps and rings around the base of the statue. From where they park, she can see gazebos with flowers woven into them that line the open space around it. 

There’s a small crowd waiting for them at the base of the mountainside the statue is built on, a section of it just beneath the stone Joseph’s hand is carved slightly down. Ledges with spots to grapple along comes down to the ground. The statue blocks out the sun when they stand beneath it, the visage of Joseph towering over them like a kaiju is both terrifying and hilarious to the young deputy. 

The ambulance is already there, body bag being brought inside of it, sparing the deputies from seeing what remained of the person after they jumped. Rocky ground where the man would have hit is painted with a white Eden’s Gate symbol, blood now staining the dark rock and white paint. 

Faith and a few Eden’s Gate members are nearby. The youngest Seed sits on a stone, adorned in one of her delicate white dresses, her blonde hair pulls back in a soft ponytail today. Her feet are still bare, as if someone’s blood isn’t mere inches from her, as if a body bag isn’t being rolled into an ambulance. Faith leans back on her hands, humming softly, kicking her feet gently in tune to her little song. Does this even faze her?

“Not much to do here,” the EMT tells Pratt and Dahlia, “another suicide, guy hit his head off the cliff before he even reached the ground, dead on arrival.” 

“This happen a lot?” Dahlia asks, looking between Pratt and the EMT. They talked as if this happens every day. 

“Kinda, “ Pratt admits, “I mean, it’s easy to access and tall as fuck, people have been jumping off to die since the peggies finished building it.” 

“Hope County’s version of The Golden Gate Bridge.” 

“That’s … fucked.” 

“We gotta get to the morgue, call the next of kin, don’t know if there’s much else for you all to handle.” 

“Alright, thanks for the help.” 

Pratt and Dahlia wave off the EMT as the ambulance drives away; leaving the deputies with Faith and the Eden’s Gate members. It’s only natural to ask the owners of the statue a few questions, if they saw or heard anything. Faith seems to know this, given her soft smile as she waits for them, this really must be a normal occurrence. 

“Hello, deputies,” she greets them as they wander off, “it’s a shame really, that a symbol of hope is used by the hopeless to end their own suffering.” 

“I’m sure your heart is breaking, but, don’t suppose there’s any chance you saw anything?’ 

“No, I’m afraid no one was here this morning or late last night.” 

“Of course,” Pratt says, more annoyed than anything and if this is the typical, Dahlia can understand why. There’s not much they can really do, it’s a tragedy, but unless there was another party involved it’s not really a police matter. 

But, Dahlia wonders why the statue is so enticing a spot for suicide? It’s tall of course, the fall is a certain death. But, there are so many bridges around as well, not that she’s in that mental state at the moment but she imagines falling into water to die would be more enticing than hitting rock. And it’s odd as well, that the impact spot is marked with their symbol.

“Why is the ground painted?” 

“Hmm?” Faith hums out an inquisitive noise, blinking at the deputy’s sudden question. 

“The ground here, your church symbol is on it, I was just wondering why? Doesn’t seem like you can or would do much in this exact spot?” 

Dahlia’s reminded of a bible passage, one of many she recalls from her childhood. The story of Satan trying to tempt Jesus to jump from a high cliff in Jerusalem, that if he’s truly the child of god he’d be safe, to give a leap of faith. It sticks in the back of her mind, nagging at her, surely that wouldn’t be a thing? 

“Oh, I know it’s silly, but we like to put our symbol of hope and faith wherever we can, even in the smallest of places.” 

“Uh, this isn’t like a thing, is it?” Dahlia asks before she can stop herself. 

“Rook,” Pratt scolds her for the accusatory question. But Faith giggles. 

“You really have a vivid imagination, don’t you, Rook? I don’t imagine we’d keep many members if we were pushing them off a statue.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” that was dumb, Dahlia realizes the second she hears it out loud, “I think I’ve been watching too many horror movies.” 

“Next, you’ll be accusing us of drugging our members,” Faith says, giggling with a soft smile on her face and Dahlia laughs along, yeah, she’s being ridiculous. 

“Okay, well with that out of the way, we’ll get out of your hair,” Pratt speaks up, ready to go back to the station, not that there was much for them to do. 

“Uh, actually, I did wanna ask you something, real quick, about Cassie,” Dahlia pipes up, before they leave. Pratt raises an eyebrow, looking at Dahlia. 

“She’s settling in really well, she already feels like a part of the family, I assure you.” Faith squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, warm in it’s reassurance. 

“Thanks, I’m hoping I can visit before too long.” 

“Oh, that’d be wonderful!” Faith captures both of Dahlia’s hands this time, grinning and stepping into the deputy’s personal space. Her and Joseph are both so touchy, it catches her off guard. 

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you Faith, but we really need to be headed back now, c’mon, Rook.” 

“Coming,” Dahlia calls out following behind a fast walking Pratt, one final wave goodbye to Faith. 

Dahlia is fastening her seat belt in the cruiser, Pratt starting up the engine and taking them back down that winding road. There’s a palpable tension that eases with every step away from that statue. Whoever at Eden’s Gate approved it is ridiculous. 

“Didn’t know you and Faith were so close.” 

“We get along alright, her and Joseph helped me out this weekend.” 

“What, you ditch the barbecue to hang out with peggies?” 

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “my friend Cassie was staying with me, some shit happened at the Moonflower, they offered to help her out.” 

“Since when do you have friends?” 

“Hahaha, hilarious. Look, it’s not like I planned for shit to go sideways, why do you even care?” 

“I don’t.” 

“Sure seems like you do.” 

“I don’t, you wanna run around with peggies, that’s your business, but it’s not gonna do you any favors around here.” 

“Oh no, are the popular girls not gonna like me if I sit with the peggies?” Dahlia says with mock worry, pressing her hand to her chest. What kind of high school bullshit is this?

“Shut up, I’m fuckin’ serious, the only people who like peggies are peggies. Since when do you like that shit anyway?”

“I don’t like it, I’m not into religion, you know that. Just, I don’t know, doesn’t mean they aren’t chill.” 

“Eden’s Gate is not fuckin’ chill, they’re weird and a pain in the ass.” 

“They’re definitely weird, you know social media has eroded my soul?” 

“What they find out you shared John’s shitty commercial on Twitter?” 

“Huh, no? How’d you know that?” Dahlia’s careful to keep herself hard to identify online, her Twitter has no name, job, or location. Though, unless Eden’s Gate is broadcasting their cheesy crap all over the nation, that’d be easy for a Hope County Native too figure out. 

“Petunia’s your icon on there.” 

“I didn’t realize you could tell the difference in opossums.” In Dahlia’s defense, Petunia looked adorable eating her lunch that day and again, she assumed anyone would just think it was a random opossum picture. 

“I know Petunia when I see her, give me some credit,” he rolls his eyes, “you know John’s gonna kill you if he does find out.” 

“Well, it’s a damn good thing Eden’s Gate doesn’t use social media then.” 

“Ah, yes, because as we all know no one ever disobeys their religion. I for one am still a picture perfect altar boy.” 

“Loo-you’re Catholic?” The realization hits her and she looks bewildered at her partner’s profile. Granted, she rarely thinks about anyone’s religion, but for Pratt it seems all the more confusing. He hardly seems religious by any standard. 

“I was raised Catholic,” he specifies and she nods her head, “Joey was too.” 

“Neither of you are anymore?” 

“I really can’t be bothered to give a fuck about it anymore, it is what it is, pretty sure Joey completely gave up on any of it.” 

“There’s not a lot of practicing Catholics in this area, is there?” She’s pretty sure Montana is mostly protestants. 

“No, the church in Falls End is Hope’s Catholic church, and it’s always been small. Me and Joey were damn near the only kids even.” 

Dahlia can’t help but smile, thinking of Hudson and Pratt as kids. She always had the feeling they’d known each other for a long while, both talking about Hope County like they’ve been here all their lives. Hudson is a little older, but not much, so it just makes sense that in this small a place they’d known each other as children. 

“How long have you guys known each other?” 

“We playing fifty questions or something?” 

“I’m curious!” 

“No, your turn asshole. You wanna grill me on religion and shit, you get it back.” 

“You already know how I feel about religion.” 

“I know you didn’t wanna go to church and were a weirdo about it, that’s it.” 

“Uhh,” she breathes, he’s right that it’s only fair to answer the same questions he answered for her, “my actual dad was Catholic, my mom was Jewish, then she remarried a fundie Preacher, Pentecostal, so that’s how I was raised, unfortunately.” 

“So, you were zigzagged all over as far as that goes.” 

“Eh, I mean, before she remarried, neither my mother or dad were like devout or felt they had to raise me a certain way. Like, I think I vaguely remember getting both Christmas and Hannukah when I was three?” She tries to pull up the fuzzy memory of when her mother, back when she was a true mother, helped her light a menorah and her dad hoisted her up to put a star on a modest Christmas tree.

“You believe in anything nowadays.” 

“I consider myself an atheist at best.” 

“At worst?” 

“Well, if god does exist, he’s an asshole and I’d like to break his nose.” 

That gets a laugh out of Pratt and Dahlia grins, she knows it sounds silly, but it’s true. How she genuinely feels, she doesn’t think anyone is watching over them, no singular or multiple gods, but if any creator can watch idly by as everyone suffers … Not someone she’d want to be worshipping, quite frankly. 

The day winds down with little else for the deputies to do. Beyond the station windows the sky starts to turn pink, sun setting on another workday. Dahlia is fiddling with her phone, walking out of the station. 

“You coming to The Spread Eagle tonight,” Hudson asks her, “I know you haven’t really been since that asshole gave you a hard time.” 

“Oh uh, yeah, I could tag along.” Dahlia scratches at the back of her neck, feeling the heat climb up her face. She can see concern in Hudson’s olive-green eyes, which isn’t helping the blush across the young deputy’s face. 

“C’mon then, probie,” Pratt calls out, giving Dahlia a playful smack on the shoulder as he passes by. 

It’s the usual sight as Stray walks into The Spread Eagle; rock-folk music on the Jukebox tonight, couples dancing or sharing drinks, workers in flannels and dirty boots grabbing a drink after a long day. They slide into their usual seats, the youngest deputy between her two superiors, there’s a warmth to the low lights and wood interior. Mary May’s soft smile greeting them as she serves the rest of the patrons. 

_ “I don't care if it rains! _

_ Let's all go to the bar! _

_ I don't care if there's a hurricane! _

_ Let's all go to the bar!” _

“I’ve been stuck on desk duty all day,” Hudson speaks over the music, starting the evening conversation with a groan, “so please tell me you two had something interesting happen.” 

“Suicide out at Joseph’s statue, that’s about it.” Dahlia shrugs, nothing else really of note. 

“Ugh, if I was near that statue I’d kill myself too.” 

“It gives my heebie jeebies the heebie jeebies, not gonna lie.” 

“Really, Rook, but Joseph’s your new best friend, remember?” Pratt cuts in to taunt the Junior Deputy.

“I have a finger for you.”

“You aren’t buddying up with the Seeds, are you deputy?” Mary May’s voice rings out as she sets drinks and food in front of the three officers, they hadn’t even ordered yet. Dahlia’s seen her do it with Hudson and Pratt, knowing the two deputy’s order inherently after years of routine. But it’s the first time she’s done it for Dahlia, knowing the youngest deputy’s favorite burger and soda. It’s nice and she’d love to spend a moment appreciating the coziness of it, but the weight of the bartender’s question hangs in the air. 

“No,” Dahlia assures her, though a part of her feels guilty, as if she’s compromising loyalties, “they helped me and a friend out, that’s all.” 

“Eden’s Gate doesn’t help anyone without expecting something in return, I know you’re new around here, deputy, but you need to be careful around them. They’ll do anything to have another cop wrapped around their finger.” 

“Woah woah,” Dahlia holds her hands up in mock surrender, “it was just a little favor, nothing big I promise.” 

“You don’t get it, that fami-“ 

“I think Merle is trying to flag you down for another beer,” Pratt interjects, saving Dahlia from the rest of the lecture. 

“Yeah, uh, just be careful, deputy.” With that Mary May leaves them to serve Merle, some man with a mullet, another beer. 

“Sorry about that,” Pratt says, “forgot how weird she gets about the Seeds.” 

“Can’t blame her for it though, John Seed’s had it out for her family since they came here.” 

“I would like to change the subject.” 

“Pfft,” Pratt stifles a laugh at her blunt declaration, “alright, we can do that.” 

“Well, okay, how’d your break go?” 

“Mostly boring, other than when Pratt took me flying.” 

“You took her up in the helicopter?” Hudson asks, raising an eyebrow at the male deputy over Dahlia’s shoulder. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

“You seriously pulled that move on her?” 

“Shut up.” 

“Move?” 

“Pratt has a habit of bringing girls up in the helicopter, don’t you?” 

“I plead the fifth.” 

“Oh, uh, I don’t know it was fun, though.” Dahlia shrugs, she doesn’t really care if he brings other people up in the helicopter. She’s not really sure how it’s relevant or what Hudson means by it being a move; she had fun with her friend and he cheered her up. 

“Hear that, Joey, it was fun. Don’t put weird ideas in Rookie’s head. “

“Oh yeah, blame me.” 

“So, anything interesting happen at the station while I was gone?” 

“Well,” Hudson smirks, mischief in her eyes as she glances at Pratt again. 

“She doesn’t need to know about that.” 

“I think she does, the day after you went on leave-”

“I’d like to change the subject,” Pratt cuts Hudson off, mimicking Dahlia from earlier. 

“I don’t even know what the subject is yet!” The youngest deputy objects, laughing. 

“Well, a certain someone’s mom felt the need to come down to the station and let Whitehorse know just how wrong he is to put her precious son in harm’s way.” 

“Oh my god,” Dahlia says, unable to resist smiling, while Pratt’s buried his head in his hands, “your mom came to the station?” 

“Yes, yes, laugh it up.” 

“You call me a child and you have your mommy checking in on you at work?” 

“I didn’t invite her!” 

Pratt’s face is flushed bright red while Hudson and Dahlia laugh at his expense, but despite the embarrassing aspect, Dahlia can’t help but think it’s a little endearing. His mom must really love him. 

“She worry about you a lot?” Dahlia asks, core aching from laughing.

“Ugh, that’s a fuckin’ understatement.” 

“Mama Pratt’s always been a little too worried about her baby boy,” Hudson taunts, reaching over the table to pinch at Pratt’s cheek, only for him to smack her hands away. 

“I’m sure that went over great when you went into law enforcement.” 

“She still gets furious at Whitehorse for putting us in danger.” 

“Us?” 

“She wasn’t very happy about me becoming a cop either,” Hudson admits and that makes sense, given what Pratt’s told Dahlia about them being close as kids, surely she’d be close to his mother. 

“And if she meets you, she’ll be in Whitehorse’s ear again.” 

“Huh?” 

“I can hear it now, ‘how could you put that little girl in danger, what’s wrong with you?’” Hudson tries her best to mimic Pratt’s mother, grinning at the ridiculousness of it, and despite herself … the idea of his mom doting on her the way she would Hudson. As if Dahlia could be as close to either of them, even if the idea of being seen as a vulnerable little girl is a bit patronizing. 

“Not gonna lie, I really want to meet your mom now.” 

“No.” 

“C’mon!” 

“No, not in a million years, I get enough hell from Joey and Beau, I don’t need it from you too.” 

Their conversation continues late into the evening as it so often does, just a few hours shy of staying until closing, early mornings the only thing that keeps them from staying later. Around the same time as they have every other night, they leave and say their goodbyes. Pratt and Hudson heading back to the small set of apartment housing that resides in the little town, while the youngest deputy rides back to the trailer park. 

She stops at the mailboxes, in the registration building, rows of them with their lot numbers associated with them. The printed letters for Cassie and Joseph heavy in her pocket. A part of her does feel guilty, mostly to Mary May, but it’s not as if they’re close friends and the bartender can’t expect Dahlia to avoid an entire family because of hearsay. And it’s not as if she’s joining up or spending every moment with them. She shakes her head, stupid feelings, it’s not as if she has to choose sides. She can be thankful for the Seed’s help and still get along with Mary May. She tucks the letters inside her mailbox to be sent out then heads into her trailer, throwing herself down on her couch to sleep for the night. 

_ Hands on her, groping and prodding on Dahlia’s bare body. She screams and fights against them, unable to see whom they belong to, a mystery hidden by the logic of a dream. They feel different, but she sees no difference, each pair ink black as if monsters reaching from the void to defile her. They claw and grab; scratching over her ribs, locking fingers around her throat, squeezing at her thighs, and pressing over her mouth. The hands are everywhere and they smear black across her skin, smears and filth, reminders of their violation. They stain her skin, mark her flesh, and leave the aftermath of their violence on her body.  _

_ And she fights. She kicks and she pulls, but it only spurs them to grab her more. Dahlia lashes out at the void that touches her, but it does not retreat. She bites at the ink fingers that push into her tongue, but the digits only press deeper in, sliding into her throat.  _

_ She can’t be sure if she breaks away or they let her go, but their touch is gone, Dahlia dropping to her knees as if they were the only thing supporting her. Inky black slick across her skin where they touched her, heavy even on her tongue, finger prints within them.  _

_ And she wretches as flowers bloom from the stains they’d left on her. Small blue flowers blossom forth bursting through the flesh of her tongue, sprouting from her throat and gagging her, soft petals falling from her lips. Those same vibrant blue flowers burst forth from her throat where she was choked.  _

_ Red flowers bloom out from the flesh of her ribs, stacked blossoms along a single stem cutting through the tender skin, like blades. They follow the curve of the bones within her, just long beneath her breast where rough hands had torn at her skin.  _

_ White petals, the most familiar as they recur so often and are a constant sight within the county. They grow through the plush of her thighs, not even blood or black tarnishing them as they push through her skin. They wind and weave as they come through like petal ropes around her .  _

_ And her heart staggers a beat as a sunflower grows within it, then through her chest, a vivid yellow. Her eye burns, a pressure behind it as another great yellow bloom grows behind it, piercing the fragile membrane, blood falling from her socket, vision in the eye obscured from the flower that’s taken it’s place.  _

_She’s awash of yellows, blues, whites, and reds. Turned into a cruel art piece, body aching as her skin is open, her lungs choked, her heart stuttering to beat, and body protesting in agony_. 

And she snaps awake, not jolting from her couch but twisting with a heavy cough, phantom tickles within her throat. She gags on something that doesn’t exist, heartbeat thundering and lungs burning. Dahlia takes a moment to gather herself, a cold sweat still clinging to her skin. Her clock informs her it’s four in the morning. 

She pushes back the hair that’s fallen into her face and lights up a cigarette, inhaling nicotine to ease her shaky body and frayed nerves. These dreams have only been getting more frequent and they’re starting to fuck with her. She can’t live with having a heart attack every other night and barely getting sleep. 

Once she’s filled her lungs with smoke, let the burning cigarette nearly singe her fingers before she tosses it out. Dahlia throws on the lights, blinking through the way it blinds her after so long of darkness, but she ignores the sleep heavy in her eyes as she grabs her drawing pad, sitting at her coffee table on the floor letting her mind lead her hand. 

Sunflowers she knows, the flower iconic enough in identity for her to know it and with the white flowers being so around the county, she could easily be able to figure out what they are. She thinks they’re called moonflowers, given the name of the trailer park and that a field of them surround them. But she sketches them out, along with the other flowers she saw. Four types of flowers on the page. She needs to get them on paper while they’re fresh in her mind. And then in the crux of them all, she draws out the layered ones from her previous dreams. 

She plans on looking them up, flowers have significance and meaning, she’s heard that before that people can plan bouquets to communicate messages. She’s never cared about flowers in her entire life, so she has no idea why on earth they’d such a recurring theme in her dreams be. 

Dahlia feels more relaxed now that she’s smoked and gotten the images of the flowers on paper. She’ll search for her answers later, after she’s gotten more sleep. Nerves and body relaxed, she curls back up on her couch, letting herself fall into a dreamless sleep. 

It’s a few hours past noon the next day, a slow day of just tickets, the young deputy’s head is against her own seatbelt. Her eyes are starting to close despite the amount of energy drinks she’s consumed. She managed to salvage a few hours of restful sleep, but not nearly enough to keep her awake through an already boring day. Her eyelids are impossibly heavy, each blink growing longer and longer. 

“Rook!” 

“I’m awake!” Dahlia says with a jolt, Pratt’s voice and a shake of her shoulder waking her back up. 

“Are you?” Pratt asks while laughing and she pinches at the bridge of her nose, a headache coming on. 

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

“What were doing?” 

“Wasn’t doing nothing; just bad dream,” she tells him, shrugging. 

“Units near the Orchard please respond,” Nancy from dispatch’s voice crackles over their radio, they’re still in the Valley and maybe five minutes from the giant orchard.

“Deputy Pratt responding.”

“Debbie and Doug called in a robbery, suspect has fled the scene, but they’re still requesting an officer to file a report.” 

“We’ll be there shortly,” he hangs up the receiver, “wake up, Rookie, we have to actually work today.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe,” he admits, acknowledging that it’ll likely just be an hour of talking, writing down a report, and then leaving. 

They drive past the pumpkin farm, Dahlia unable to resist smiling when she sees Boomer playing with his owners, weaving through the gourds. She’s reminded of her first day, stopping to pet the dog to dispel her own nerves. Then the apple trees filter in, bright red and shining in the light. Each tree is overflowing, a few crates out fill with the fruit, apples that have fallen on the ground. 

Pratt pulls up to the orchard’s packing facility past the market stall that advertises cider tasting. There’s a man and woman standing in front of the large open packing facility; the building painted red with green roofing, the open doors showing the crates and machines. The smell of crisp apples hits Dahlia as she gets out of the cruiser, mixing with the fresh air, she feels more awake than she was before. Rarely, but sometimes, the beauty of the county manages to lift her spirits. 

“What’s going on?” Pratt asks the couple. 

“Someone,” Debbie gives a pointed look at her husband Doug, arms crossed, “left the office key in the stall again, next thing we know, someone cleared out our safe.” 

“Hey, don’t blame me.” 

“Well who the fuck am I suppose to blame?” 

“That fuckin’ church would be a goddamn start.” 

The tension is palpable as the couple argues, body language tight and wrought with frustration. Stray can’t tell if Debbie is about to cry or scream, maybe both. Doug looks as if he’d like to rip the earth up and bury himself beneath it. 

“Everybody calm down, did anyone see anything suspicious?” 

“John fuckin’ Seed and his band of goons were here earlier, no one saw him grab the key, but no one else would have. Son of a bitch has it out for us.” 

“Alright, you wanna take me back to the office, I’ll have a look around,” Pratt asks Doug. 

“Yeah, no problem.” 

“You mind staying out here and talking to me, Debbie?” Dahlia offers, she’s not the most comforting person in the world, but the older woman clearly needs to get some stuff off her chest. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” 

Doug and Pratt go back to the office within the packing facility, leaving Dahlia alone with Debbie. 

“Lets find a place to sit down and just breathe for a minute, alright?” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Debbie agree and Dahlia places what she hopes to be a comforting hand on the woman’s back, guiding her into the market stall where she saw benches. 

She settles in across from Debbie, who wrings her hands together. 

“No pressure and you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but if you need an ear, I’m willing to listen.” 

“Don’t even know where to start, ever since John Seed set his sights on the orchard, it’s been a nightmare.” 

“He been making life hard for you?” 

“That’s the understatement of the god damn century, that church has been buying up properties since they got here. The railyard, the old summer camp, the veterans center, the conservatory; list goes on … I use to wonder why everyone sold out to them, but I fuckin’ get it now.” 

“They’re persistent?” 

“They’re fucking heartless. Me and Doug built this place from the ground up; John Seed made an offer and we said no. Next thing we know; roads are blocked so our shipments can’t go out, they buy up the fertilizer plant and we can’t use it to help the new crops, cargo trucks are toting away product in the dead of night, and now this shit. We’ve been hemorrhaging cash ever since he set his sights on us. Got an attorney involved and all they did was charge us.”

“I’m so fucking sorry, I can’t even imagine how hard this is for you.” 

“We had a good year for crops, thought we’d break even if nothing else, then what little we got was taken. I can’t even pay my god damn workers, we’ve had to let go of folks who’ve been here for years because they couldn’t keep working for free cider.” 

The woman lets out a breath, body deflating as she finally gets everything off her chest, but her blue eyes are brimming with tears. Dahlia offers her a tissue from her pocket, not sure what else she can do, watching the woman dab at her eyes. Despite the help Joseph and his church has given to Dahlia and Cassie, this sort of behavior can’t be enabled. Theodore was stealing booze from The Spread Eagle, on the order of John Seed, when she first came here. Lonny hasn’t exactly been shy about insinuating he should just be allowed to take her motorcycle. So, it’s not far fetched to imagine them getting greedy. As ironic as it is to attach a sin to church goers. 

“They can’t do that shit.” 

“But they do, no evidence though, nothing can be done. If the cops even bother to show up, no offense, but a lot of your station ain’t doing their fucking jobs.” 

“No offense taken, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you every cops here for the right reasons. But, uh, if there’s something I can do to help, I want to.” 

“Short of a miracle, I don’t think there’s much we can do. Take John’s next offer, try to fuckin’ survive.” 

“There has to be a way for you guys to keep the orchard,” Dahlia murmurs more to herself than Debbie, at the end of it all the young deputy doesn’t have a dog in the fight. But, her heart does break for the couple and she wants to find some way to help. 

“I’m willing to try anything at this point.” 

“Ever think of doing any kind of apple festival or something? I mean people do that, sounds nicer than one for testicles.” 

“Pssh,” she laughs a little at the way Dahlia wrinkles her nose, “it’d take a lot of work to get something like that set up.” 

“I mean, do you really think the rest of the county won’t come together to help, you can do stands, have food, games, charge some money. I mean, it’s an idea.”

“We got stands for the market, don’t know if I can cook for a whole county though, if they even show.” 

“Do you think Casey or Chad would help out?” Dahlia brings up the cooks from the Spread Eagle and Grill Steak. Small communities are suppose to come together in times of crisis, that’s the hope at least. Lloyd always told her that’s what he loved about Hope County and Reinette, everyone’s willing to pitch in. 

“Maybe … Casey knows the runners of the Testy Festy too, he could help up get vendors and games set up, I … ya think we can actually do this?” 

“Way I see it, best case scenario, it gets you through the rough spot, sticks it to John Seed, and you could do it every year for an income boost. Worst case scenario, you go down swinging, having some fun, and with friends by your side,” Dahlia tells her honestly with a shrug, she doesn’t want to give false hope, but even in worst case scenario, it’s worth it to go down swinging. 

“That’s,” she smiles, tears clearing, she looks hopeful finally, “that’s hard to argue with, you gonna help?”

“Of course, I can see about talking to Casey tonight even.” 

“Deb?” Doug’s voice calls out and the women leave the market stall, Doug and Pratt have come back from the office Pratt raises an eyebrow, eye drifting from the now happy Debbie, to Dahlia. Silently asking her what the hell happened. 

“There wasn’t anything that can pin it on anyone, no security footage or prints, sorry,” Pratt tells her. 

“I figured … Doug, me and Deputy … .” she searches for Dahlia’s name only to realize she doesn’t know it, “ … her have been talking, what do you think about throwing together a festival?” 

“A festival?” 

“Yeah, we could get the county together, might just be what saves this place. I … just … I don’t wanna give up yet. She said she’d help, I think, I think we can do this.” 

“We’d need to move fast and a festival take a lot of time to set up.” 

“I mean, we get enough people on board, I can’t see why we can have it ready to go by, next Friday, the 10 th ?” Dahlia cuts in to help, that’d give them a little over a week, short notice but not impossible. 

“You planning on helping?” 

“Of course,”Dahlia beams, but no reason she can’t volunteer some more help, she throws an arm over Pratt’s shoulder, “we’d both be happy to help anyway we can.” 

“What?” Pratt asks blankly and she just gives him a friendly smack on the chest, if he can force her into a church barbecue, she can damn well rope him into helping a local business. 

“Well then, I think next Friday could work,” Doug admits. 

“We could hold it Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. An entire weekend for everyone to come together, have some fun and maybe save this place,” Debbie tells him, smiling wide.

“Okay, lets do it.” 

“Hell yeah.” Dahlia grins, the formerly frustrated and desperate couple are now smiling bright as can be. Warmth is burning in the rookie deputy’s chest, proud that she can help them get those smiles back. 

“Yeah … well, guess I can help,” Pratt admits, still glaring at Dahlia in his peripheral, she’s just amazed he hasn’t pushed her off of him yet. 

“I’ll try to talk to Casey tonight, if the bars too busy, I’ll try tomorrow. Then I’ll get in touch with Chad, ask around about music, games, anything we could need.”

“Gotta find a way to advertise it.” 

“I’ll figure it out,” Dahlia tells them, confident she can put it together, “you guys worry about getting the orchard set up, getting food, cider, prices, and all that figured out. And if you need anything just call down to the station and ask for Rook.” 

“Thank you, seriously, both of you.” 

“No problem,” Pratt says, though there’s a sigh in his voice, “our probie here just loves to help people.” 

“Well, it is my job, speaking of which, you said the church is blocking the roads?” 

“Yeah, our trucks can’t even get a shipment out.” 

“Do you know where they’re set up?” 

“Yeah, the road that leads from Holland valley out to Missoula, if you follow it far enough, why?” 

“Public roads legally can’t be blocked,” Pratt explains for her. 

“So, we’re gonna pay them a quick visit.” 

“Thanks again, we’ll be in touch, Deputy.” 

They wave off the couple, saying their goodbyes as they climb back into the cruiser. A beat of silence passes without Pratt starting the engine. 

“What the fuck, Rook?” 

“What?” 

“You know your getting yourself into deep shit, right? Pissing off the church right after they helped you out?” 

“Them helping me out ain’t a free pass to do whatever they want. I can get along with someone and still hold them accountable for their bullshit. They have no right trying to railroad Debbie and Doug like that.” 

“And you have no right dragging me into it.” 

“You volunteered me for the fuckin’ church barbecue.” 

“That’s different.” 

“How?” 

“We were off the clock, not work hours.” 

“What about trying to pressure me into going to the Rye barbecue, while at Redlers, technically on the clock.” 

“That was also different.” 

“How?” 

“’Cause you’re the rookie and I’m allowed to be mean to you.” 

“No, that is not how that works!” 

“Is too, the entire point of hiring rookie cops is to hassle them, you don’t get to hassle back.” 

“Well, too bad, fucker we’re throwing an apple festival.” 

“Jesus christ.” 

“It’ll be fun.” 

“It’ll be a pain in my ass,” he says, grumbling as he starts the engine, taking off out of the orchard. 

Dahlia sticks her tongue out at him as they wind through the roads. Apple trees become the usual firs and pines, road signs starting to indicate they’re in route to Missoula. The young deputy watches the woods pass by, where the trees meet the blue sky, farmland occasionally breaking the landscape with cows meandering around. 

It’s not long before they come to a stop and sure enough, large slabs of concrete are across the roadway. White trucks bearing the Eden’s Gate symbol are slotted behind them, black flags with the symbol in white stream from the back, and sturdier white vans are nearby as well. Members of the church are gathered there, woman with overgrown hair and men with hairy faces, a few she recognizes. All looking at the stopped cruiser with some measure of anger or worry. 

“Hey, deputy,” it’s Waylon who greets Dahlia, smiling at her, “what seems to be the issue?” 

“Your blocking public roads,” Pratt is the one to answer. 

“Oh, see the thing if, the church is having some property worked on nearby. So, we really can’t have anyone driving through here, it’s temporary of course.” 

“You can’t do that, though,” Dahlia explains, “if you need to fence off private property, you need to do it along the property line. Unless you have permission from the state, you cannot block public road access.” 

“Deputy please, surely you understand.” 

“Waylon,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, “you know we get along and I don’t have anything against the church, but blocking the road affects everyone else. If you really need roads blocked off, you need to contact the right people and get permits first, okay?” 

“Understood.” 

“Okay, then, just clear out and everything will be fine.” 

He doesn’t seem happy, none of the church members do, but that’s the rules. She can’t even understand why’d they ever need to block the roads, if she didn’t know any better she’d think they were trying to keep people from leaving. 

They drive the trucks and vans away; Dahlia and Pratt even helping move the concrete blockades off the road. Why do they even have those? 

There’s still a sour note in the air once the block is cleared and the deputies have pulled away. She hates this weird back and forth; the church helping her but then doing something that gives her reason to doubt them. Wanting to be their friend but needing to put her foot down; wanting them and both the people who hate them to like her. Torn between the two as well as her child; like an unfortunate child in the midst of their parent’s divorce and she’s being forced to choose one. 

It’s getting close to evening, when they pull up to the station to put in the report. The usual folks are in the bullpen, Hudson working at her computer with a mug of coffee and Brennan at his desk as well. The faces she’s come to know the best outside of Pratt. He plops himself down into his chair at his desk and Dahlia decides to grab another energy drink from the kitchen first.

She’s managed to rummage through the collection of tana cola bottle to find it, cracking it open with a yawn as she leaves the kitchen. 

“ … it wouldn’t have been so bad if Rook didn’t volunteer me for some bullshit.” 

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic.” 

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt jolts in his chair, nearly toppling it over, “that’s it, we’re getting you a god damn bell!” 

“Didn’t know you were into that, Staci,” Brennan says with a snicker. 

“Shut up.” 

“Oh, please, no one’s buying it,” Hudson says, rolling her eyes. 

“There’s nothing to buy, Rook is an annoying shit, who just grabbed me and volunteered me for bullshit.” 

“You’re such a baby.” 

Dahlia reaches out and flicks his ear, laughing when Pratt grabs her hand, fingers intertwining as he tries to push her back. She brings her other hand up, trying to reach out and flick him with her other hand. But he grabs it in the same way, the two pushing against each other, both grinning like children. She’s not even sure what the goal is and Pratt probably doesn’t either. But then his office chair wheels slide back from the force and she’s found a goal, pushing Pratt across the room. No particular reason for it other than the idea of watching him sail across the bullpen makes her giggle. But he won’t let go of her hands enough that she can push him without him dragging her too. 

“The hell are you two doing?” Whitehorse’s voice booms out when he walks in to see the two deputies horsing around. 

“Being idiots.” 

“I don’t know, looks like flirting to me.” 

Hudson’s insult and Brennan’s teasing makes red flush up the two bickering deputy’s cheeks. They’re technically holding hands and leaning into each other’s personal space, Dahlia realizes. Pratt suddenly drops her hands, jolting away as if her skin has burnt his, and pushing his chair away from her. Nearly toppling over a trashcan in his haste. 

“Yeah why the hell you holding my hand, Rookie?”

“You grabbed my hand first, asshole!” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Yes, you did.” 

“You did.” 

“You absolutely did.” 

Hudson and Brennan agree with Dahlia, Pratt’s face going from pink to scarlet. Whitehorse rolls his eyes, no doubt questioning his hiring decisions. How any of them still have jobs is a mystery, except Hudson. 

“How’d things go at the orchard?” The sheriff asks, adjusting his cowboy hat. He really does look like such a stereotype. 

“We couldn’t find any evidence of who broke into the office, they grabbed the key, so I told Doug he should look into changing the locks and investing in some security cameras. They’re dead set on it being John or someone with the church though,” Pratt explains, rolling his chair back up to his desk. 

“You know it was,” Brennan scoff, “damn church is destroying the whole county.” 

“Now, now, you can’t go making accusations without evidence, I just hope Debbie and Doug can bounce back.” 

Dahlia doesn’t miss the roll of Brennan’s eyes and the sneer on his lips, he doesn’t like Eden’s Gate or Whitehorse’s attitude towards them it seems. She’s rarely seen the officer without a smile, but lips curled and leg bouncing, he seems a moment away from flipping the desk in front of him. 

“Well, if Rook’s plan works, they’ll do fine.” 

“Your plan?” Whitehorse looks at her with a raised eyebrow; her fellow deputies and Brennan all look at her expectantly as well. She scratches at the back of her neck, skin prickling at the attention. 

“Oh, uh … well, I figured they could do like an apple festival, be fun for the county and help raise some money for ‘em.” 

“That the plan you were bitching about, Pratt?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at him. 

“It’s a pain in the ass and the Seed family is gonna be pissed.” 

“So, apple pie and pissing off the Seeds, I’m fuckin’ sold,” Brennan sticks his fist out to Dahlia and she bumps her knuckles to his, grinning, “anything I can help with, just say the word.” 

“Seriously, see why can’t you be my partner?” 

“Hey, rude.” 

“’Cause we’d never get Pratt to stop whining about it.” 

“What the hell, you’re suppose to be on my side, Beau.” 

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.” 

“I’m willing to help out too if I can,” Hudson cuts in between the banter, eyes soft, “I still remember going apple picking there with my family, I don’t wanna see Doug and Debbie lose that place.” 

“Yeah … that place has a lot of memories for everyone,” Pratt admits, hazel eyes deepening with nostalgia. 

“Still remember the first year you came with us,” Hudson grins, “Mark tried to lift you up to grab an apple and you just started sobbing.” 

“Your brother was trying to kill me and I stand by that,” Pratt smiles as he pretends to defend himself. 

“When are Deb and Doug planning on having the festival?” Whitehorse asks Dahlia. 

“Aiming for the next Friday, the 10 th , they wanna see if they can do it the whole weekend too.” 

“Lot of work to get done if that’s gonna happen.” 

“I know, I’m planning on talking to Casey as soon as I can. See if he’ll help cook and if there’s any testy festy supplies or vendors he can help with.” 

“Mary May has a live band that plays once a week, they might be willing to play,” Hudson offers. 

“Think they’d work cheap or free? I’d hate to stiff anyone and I’ll pay whatever I have too out of my own pocket, but the last thing we want is the festival costing more than it makes,” Dahlia explains, leaning against the wall as she talks it out. 

“If they’re not willing to work any or all of it, we could always talk to Wheaty too.” 

“Wheaty?” 

“Kid who lives up North,” Brennan points in the general North direction, “he’s been obsessed with starting a radio station for years, he’ll basically DJ anything for free just to show off his vinyl collection.” 

“That could work too.” 

“Addie would probably help with money for it, honestly, just throw some advertisements up for the Marina.” 

“Hell, if me and Staci ask her, she’d probably do it anyway,” Brennan gives a wide toothy smile. 

“Gross, but true.” 

“Didn’t Grace use to do those shooting competitions at fairs and shit, letting people pay to try and outshoot her?” 

“Yeah,” Hudson nods to Pratt’s suggestion, “she hates the attention, but if it’s for a good cause I’m sure she’d do it.” 

“I don’t think the Fowler brothers would bring Cheeseburger, since they gotta watch what he eats, but they might be willing to bring down some animals for people to see.” 

“Hell, if we could convince Rae Rae to bring Boomer; people will show up just get a picture of him.” 

“Pie eating contest would draw people in too.” 

“Lorna would probably make pasties for it if we asked.” 

Dahlia can’t help but grin at all the ideas and suggestions; a fire seemingly ignited in everyone. There’s a warmth in her chest and a swelling sense of pride that she could get everyone on board. The orchard means a lot to the county, not just Debbie and Doug. And she may actually be able to save it. 

“Woah woah, hold on now,” Whitehorse calls out and Dahlia stiffens, this technically isn’t police work, “is anyone writing all this down? Not gonna do anyone a lick of good if we forget something.” 

He smiles, blue eyes soft as Hudson grabs a piece of paper, writing down the ideas that’ve been said so far. Whitehorse is giving his stamp of approval and that pride in her chest only swells bigger, thumping against her ribs and making her smile widen. 

“Rook.” 

“Yes, sheriff?” 

“As long as you keep an ear to your radio, don’t see any reason you can’t work on some of this during work, alright?” 

“Yeah, absolutely.” 

“Good, Debbie and Doug deserve the best and we’re damn well gonna give it to ‘em, that’s an order.” 

The sheriff ruffles her hair before he leaves and her face hurts from smiling so much. She pulls up a chair to the desk, sitting with Hudson, Pratt, and Brennan as they keep working on ideas. All four stay past their shift hours; scribbling down all possible ideas, who they should reach out to and who should be the one to talk to them. Dahlia smiling the entire time as they talk late into the evening. 


End file.
